The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Tenth Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  “I can’t talk now,” I said. “I have a live model. Sort of.”

  “I thought you didn’t work from live models.”

  “This time I am.”

  “Whatever. Don’t let me bother you while you’re working; I can tell you’re getting somewhere. The opening is at seven. I’m sending a van for you at six.”

  “Make it a limo, Mimsy,” I said. “We’re making art history.”

  * * *

  “It’s beautiful,” Borogove said, as I unveiled “La Rosa del Futuro” for her. “But who’s the model? He looks vaguely familiar.”

  “He’s been around the art world for years and years,” I said.

  The gallery was packed. The show was a huge success. “La Rosa,” “De Mon Mouse” and “Los Tres” were already marked SOLD, and SOLD stickers went up on my other paintings at the rate of one every twenty minutes. Everybody wanted to meet me. I had left Shorty directions and cab fare by the bed, and at 11:30 he showed up wearing only my old boyfriend’s trench coat, saying that his shimmery suit had disappeared into thin air while he was pulling it on.

  I wasn’t surprised. We were in the middle of a Timeslip, after all.

  “Who’s the barefoot guy in the fabulous Burberry?” Borogove asked. “He looks vaguely familiar.”

  “He’s been around the art world for ever and ever,” I said.

  Shorty was looking jet-lagged. He was staring dazedly at the wine and cheese and I signaled to one of the caterers to show him where the beer was kept, in the back room.

  At 11:55, Borogove threw everybody else out and turned down the lights. At midnight, right on time, a glowing column of air appeared in the center of the room, then gradually took on the shape of … but you’ve seen Star Trek. It was Stretch, and he was alone.

  “We are—uh—a guy from the future,” Stretch said, starting in English and finishing en español. He was wobbling a little.

  “I could have sworn there were two of you guys,” said Borogove. “Or did I make that up?” she whispered to me, in inglés.

  “Could be a Timeslip,” said Stretch. He looked confused himself, then brightened: “No problem though! Happens all the time. This is a light pickup. Only three paintings!”

  “We have all three right here,” said Borogove. “Teresa, why don’t you do the honors. I’ll check them off as you hand them to this guy from the future.”

  I handed him “De Mon Mouse.” Then “Los Tres Dolores.” He slipped them both through a dark slot that appeared in the air.

  “Whoops,” Stretch said, his knees wobbling. “Feel that? Slight aftershock.”

  Shorty had wandered in from the back room with a Bud in his hand. In nothing but a raincoat, he looked very disoriented.

  “This is my boyfriend, Shorty,” I said. He and Stretch stared at each other blankly and I felt the fabric of space/time tremble just for a moment. Then it was over.

  “Of course!” said Stretch. “Of course, I’d recognize you anywhere.”

  “Huh? Oh.” Shorty looked at the painting I was holding, the last of the three. “La Rosa del Futuro.” It was a full length nude of a short brown Adonis, asleep on his back without even a fig leaf, a rose placed tenderly on the pillow by his cheek. The paint was still tacky but I suspected that by the time it arrived in the future it would be dry.

  “Reminds me of the day I met Mona Lisa,” said Stretch. “How many times have I seen this painting, and now I meet the guy! Must feel weird to have the world’s most famous, you know…” He winked toward Shorty’s crotch.

  “I don’t know about weird,” said Shorty. “Something definitely feels funny.”

  “Let’s get on with this,” I said. I handed Stretch the painting and he pushed it through the slot, and Shorty and I lived happily ever after. For a while. More or less.…

  But you’ve seen I Love Lucy.

  THE MOUNTAIN TO MOHAMMED

  Nancy Kress

  Born in Buffalo, New York, Nancy Kress now lives in Brockport, New York. She began selling her elegant and incisive stories in the mid-seventies, and has since become a frequent contributor to Asimov’s, F & SF, Omni, and elsewhere. Her books include the novels The Prince of Morning Bells, The Golden Grove, The White Pipes, An Alien Light, and Brain Rose, and the collection Trinity and Other Stories. Her most recent book is the novel version of her Hugo- and Nebula-winning story, Beggars in Spain. She has also won a Nebula Award for her story “Out Of All Them Bright Stars.” She has had stories in our Second, Third, Sixth, Seventh, Eighth, and Ninth Annual Collections.

  In the all-too-plausible story that follows, she takes us to a crowded and impoverished future society for a look at how sometimes following your conscience can cost you all that you have …

  “A person gives money to the physician.

  Maybe he will be healed.

  Maybe he will not be healed.”

  —The Talmud

  When the security buzzer sounded, Dr. Jesse Randall was playing go against his computer. Haruo Kaneko, his roommate at Downstate Medical, had taught him the game. So far nineteen shiny black and white stones lay on the grid under the scanner field. Jesse frowned; the computer had a clear shot at surrounding an empty space in two moves, and he couldn’t see how to stop it. The buzzer made him jump.

  Anne? But she was on duty at the hospital until one. Or maybe he remembered her rotation wrong.…

  Eagerly he crossed the small living room to the security screen. It wasn’t Anne. Three stories below a man stood on the street, staring into the monitor. He was slight and fair, dressed in jeans and frayed jacket with a knit cap pulled low on his head. The bottoms of his ears were red with cold.

  “Yes?” Jesse said.

  “Dr. Randall?” The voice was low and rough.

  “Yes.”

  “Could you come down here a minute to talk to me?”

  “About what?”

  “Something that needs talkin’ about. It’s personal. Mike sent me.”

  A thrill ran through Jesse. This was it, then. He kept his voice neutral. “I’ll be right down.”

  He turned off the monitor system, removed the memory disk, and carried it into the bedroom, where he passed it several times over a magnet. In a gym bag he packed his medical equipment: antiseptics, antibiotics, sutures, clamps, syringes, electromed scanner, as much equipment as would fit. Once, shoving it all in, he laughed. He dressed in a warm pea coat bought second-hand at the Army-Navy store and put the gun, also bought secondhand, in the coat pocket. Although of course the other man would be carrying. But Jesse liked the feel of it, a slightly heavy drag on his right side. He replaced the disk in the security system and locked the door. The computer was still pretending to consider its move for go, although of course it had near-instantaneous decision capacity.

  “Where to?”

  The slight man didn’t answer. He strode purposefully away from the building, and Jesse realized he shouldn’t have said anything. He followed the man down the street, carrying the gym bag in his left hand.

  Fog had drifted in from the harbor. Boston smelled wet and grey, of rotting piers and dead fish and garbage. Even here, in the Morningside Security Enclave, where that part of the apartment maintenance fees left over from security went to keep the streets clean. Yellow lights gleamed through the gloom, stacked twelve stories high but crammed close together; even insurables couldn’t afford to heat much space.

  Where they were going there wouldn’t be any heat at all.

  Jesse followed the slight man down the subway steps. The guy paid for both of them, a piece of quixotic dignity that made Jesse smile. Under the lights he got a better look: The man was older than he’d thought, with webbed lines around the eyes and long, thin lips over very bad teeth. Probably hadn’t ever had dental coverage in his life. What had been in his genescan? God, what a system.

  “What do I call you?” he said as they waited on the platform. He kept his voice low, just in case.

  “Kenny.”

  “All
right, Kenny,” Jesse said, and smiled. Kenny didn’t smile back. Jesse told himself it was ridiculous to feel hurt; this wasn’t a social visit. He stared at the tracks until the subway came.

  At this hour the only other riders were three hard-looking men, two black and one white, and an even harder-looking Hispanic girl in a low-cut red dress. After a minute Jesse realized she was under the control of one of the black men sitting at the other end of the car. Jesse was careful not to look at her again. He couldn’t help being curious, though. She looked healthy. All four of them looked healthy, as did Kenny, except for his teeth. Maybe none of them were uninsurable; maybe they just couldn’t find a job. Or didn’t want one. It wasn’t his place to judge.

  That was the whole point of doing this, wasn’t it?

  * * *

  The other two times had gone as easy as Mike said they would. A deltoid suture on a young girl wounded in a knife fight, and burn treatment for a baby scalded by a pot of boiling water knocked off a stove. Both times the families had been so grateful, so respectful. They knew the risk Jesse was taking. After he’d treated the baby and left antibiotics and analgesics on the pathetic excuse for a kitchen counter, a board laid across the non-functional radiator, the young Hispanic mother had grabbed his hand and covered it with kisses. Embarrassed, he’d turned to smile at her husband, wanting to say something, wanting to make clear he wasn’t just another sporadic do-gooder who happened to have a medical degree.

  “I think the system stinks. The insurance companies should never have been allowed to deny health coverage on the basis of genescans for potential disease, and employers should never have been allowed to keep costs down by health-based hiring. If this were a civilized country, we’d have national health care by now!”

  The Hispanic had stared back at him, blank-faced.

  “Some of us are trying to do better,” Jesse said.

  It was the same thing Mike—Dr. Michael Cassidy—had said to Jesse and Anne at the end of a long drunken evening celebrating the halfway point in all their residencies. Although, in retrospect, it seemed to Jesse that Mike hadn’t drunk very much. Nor had he actually said very much outright. It was all implication, probing masked as casual philosophy. But Anne had understood, and refused instantly. “God, Mike, you could be dismissed from the hospital! The regulations forbid residents from exposing the hospital to the threat of an uninsured malpractice suit. There’s no money.”

  Mike had smiled and twirled his glasses between fingers as long as a pianist’s. “Doctors are free to treat whomever they wish, at their own risk, even uninsurables. Carter v. Sunderland.”

  “Not while a hospital is paying their malpractice insurance as residents, if the hospital exercises its right to so forbid. Janisson v. Lechchevko.”

  Mike laughed easily. “Then forget it, both of you. It’s just conversation.”

  Anne said, “But do you personally risk—”

  “It’s not right,” Jesse cut in—couldn’t she see that Mike wouldn’t want to incriminate himself on a thing like this?—”that so much of the population can’t get insurance. Every year they add more genescan pre-tendency barriers, and the poor slobs haven’t even got the diseases yet!”

  His voice had risen. Anne glanced nervously around the bar. Her profile was lovely, a serene curving line that reminded Jesse of those Korean screens in the expensive shops on Commonwealth Avenue. And she had lovely legs, lovely breasts, lovely everything. Maybe, he’d thought, now that they were neighbors in the Morningside Enclave.…

  “Another round,” Mike had answered.

  Unlike the father of the burned baby, who never had answered Jesse at all. To cover his slight embarrassment—the mother had been so effusive—Jesse gazed around the cramped apartment. On the wall were photographs in cheap plastic frames of people with masses of black hair, all lying in bed. Jesse had read about this: It was a sort of mute, powerless protest. The subjects had all been photographed on their death beds. One of them was a beautiful girl, her eyes closed and her hand flung lightly over her head, as if asleep. The Hispanic followed Jesse’s gaze and lowered his eyes.

  “Nice,” Jesse said. “Good photos. I didn’t know you people were so good with a camera.”

  Still nothing.

  Later, it occurred to Jesse that maybe the guy hadn’t understood English.

  * * *

  The subway stopped with a long screech of equipment too old, too poorly maintained. There was no money. Boston, like the rest of the country, was broke. For a second Jesse thought the brakes weren’t going to catch at all and his heart skipped, but Kenny showed no emotion and so Jesse tried not to, either. The car finally stopped. Kenny rose and Jesse followed him.

  They were somewhere in Dorchester. Three men walked quickly toward them and Jesse’s right hand crept toward his pocket. “This him?” one said to Kenny.

  “Yeah,” Kenny said. “Dr. Randall,” and Jesse relaxed.

  It made sense, really. Two men walking through this neighborhood probably wasn’t a good idea. Five was better. Mike’s organization must know what it was doing.

  The men walked quickly. The neighborhood was better than Jesse had imagined: small row houses, every third or fourth one with a bit of frozen lawn in the front. A few even had flowerboxes. But the windows were barred, and over all hung the grey fog, the dank cold, the pervasive smell of garbage.

  The house they entered had no flowerbox. The steel front door, triple-locked, opened directly into a living room furnished with a sagging sofa, a TV, and an ancient daybed whose foamcast headboard flaked like dandruff. On the daybed lay a child, her eyes bright with fever.

  Sofa, TV, headboard vanished. Jesse felt his professional self take over, a sensation as clean and fresh as plunging into cool water. He knelt by the bed and smiled. The girl, who looked about nine or ten, didn’t smile back. She had a long, sallow, sullen face, but the long brown hair on the pillow was beautiful: clean, lustrous, and well-tended.

  “It’s her belly,” said one of the men who had met them at the subway. Jesse glanced up at the note in his voice, and realized that he must be the child’s father. The man’s hand trembled as he pulled the sheet from the girl’s lower body. Her abdomen was swollen and tender.

  “How long has she been this way?”

  “Since yesterday,” Kenny said, when the father didn’t answer.

  “Nausea? Vomiting?”

  “Yeah. She can’t keep nothing down.”

  Jesse’s hands palpated gently. The girl screamed.

  Appendicitis. He just hoped to hell peritonitis hadn’t set in. He didn’t want to deal with peritonitis. Not here.

  “Bring in all the lamps you have, with the brightest watt bulbs. Boil water—” He looked up. The room was very cold. “Does the stove work?”

  The father nodded. He looked pale. Jesse smiled and said, “I don’t think it’s anything we can’t cure, with a little luck here.” The man didn’t answer.

  Jesse opened his bag, his mind racing. Laser knife, sterile clamps, scara-mine—he could do it even without nursing assistance provided there was no peritonitis. But only if … the girl moaned and turned her face away. There were tears in her eyes. Jesse looked at the man with the same long, sallow face and brown hair. “You her father?”

  The man nodded.

  “I need to see her genescan.”

  The man clenched both fists at his side. Oh, God, if he didn’t have the official printout … sometimes, Jesse had read, uninsurables burned them. One woman, furious at the paper that would forever keep her out of the middle class, had mailed hers, smeared with feces, and packaged with a plasticine explosive, to the president. There had been headlines, columns, petitions … and nothing had changed. A country fighting for its very economic survival didn’t hesitate to expend front-line troops. If there was no genescan for this child, Jesse couldn’t use scaramine, that miracle immune-system booster, to which about 15 percent of the population had a fatal reaction. Without scaramine, under these opera
ting conditions, the chances of post-operative infection were considerably higher. If she couldn’t take scaramine.…

  The father handed Jesse the laminated print-out, with the deeply embossed seal in the upper corner. Jesse scanned it quickly. The necessary RB antioncogene on the eleventh chromosome was present. The girl was not potentially allergic to scaramine. Her name was Rosamund.

  “Okay, Rose,” Jesse said gently. “I’m going to help you. In just a little while you’re going to feel so much better.…” He slipped the needle with anesthetic into her arm. She jumped and screamed, but within a minute she was out.

  Jesse stripped away the bedclothes, despite the cold, and told the men how to boil them. He spread Betadine over her distended abdomen and poised the laser knife to cut.

  * * *

  The hallmark of his parents’ life had been caution. Don’t fall, now! Drive carefully! Don’t talk to strangers! Born during the Depression—the other one—they invested only in Treasury bonds and their own one-sixth acre of suburban real estate. When the marching in Selma and Washington had turned to killing in Detroit and Kent State, they shook their heads sagely: See? We said so. No good comes of getting involved in things that don’t concern you. Jesse’s father had held the same job for thirty years; his mother considered it immoral to buy anything not on sale. They waited until she was over forty to have Jesse, their only child.

  At sixteen, Jesse had despised them; at twenty-four, pitied them; at twenty-eight, his present age, loved them with a despairing gratitude not completely free of contempt. They had missed so much, dared so little. They lived now in Florida, retired and happy and smug. “The pension”—they called it that, as if it were a famous diamond or a well-loved estate—was inflated by Collapse prices into providing a one-bedroom bungalow with beige carpets and a pool. In the pool’s placid, artificially blue waters, the Randalls beheld chlorined visions of triumph. “Even after we retired,” Jesse’s mother told him proudly, “we didn’t have to go backward.”