The Year's Best SF 21 # 2003

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

  “I remember,” Ash interrupted, trying to gain control over the conversation. “Are you a historian, sir? Like many of your kind —?”

  “I am conversant in the past, yes.”

  “Then perhaps I shouldn’t be too impressed. You seem to have been looking for me, and for all I know, you’ve thoroughly researched whatever little history is wrapped around my life.”

  “It would be impolite not to study your existence,” said the Vozzen.

  “Granted.” With another deep bow, Ash asked, “What can this old Martian do for a wise Vozzen?”

  The alien fell silent.

  For a moment, Ash studied the second creature. Its skeleton and muscle were much like a man’s, and the head wore a cap of what could have been dense brown hair. There was one mouth and two eyes, but no visible nose and the mouth was full of heavy pink teeth. Of course many humans had novel genetics, and there were remoras on the Ship’s hull—men and women who wore every intriguing, creative mutation. But this creature was not human. Ash sensed it, and using a private nexus, he asked his shop for a list of likely candidates.

  “Ash,” the Vozzen said. “Yes, I have made a comprehensive study of your considerable life.”

  Ash dipped his head, driving his knees into the rough ground. “I am honored, sir. Thank you.”

  “I understand that you possess some rather exotic machinery.”

  “Quite novel. Yes, sir.”

  “And talents. You wield talents even rarer than your machinery.”

  “Unique talents,” Ash replied with an effortless confidence. He lifted his eyes, and smiled, and wanting the advantage in his court, he rose to his feet, brushing the grit from his slightly bloodied knees as he told his potential client, “I help those whom I can help.”

  “You help them for a fee,” the alien remarked, a clear disdain in the voice.

  Ash approached the Vozzen, remarking, “My fee is a fair wage. A wage determined by the amoral marketplace.”

  “I am a poor historian,” the Vozzen complained.

  Ash gazed into the bright black eyes. Then with a voice tinged with a careful menace, he said, “It must seem awful, I would think. Being a historian, and being Vozzen, and feeling your precious memories slowly and inexorably leaking away …”

  The Ship was an enormous derelict—a world-sized starship discovered by humans, and repaired by humans, and sent by its new owners on a great voyage around the most thickly settled regions of the galaxy. It was Ash’s good fortune to be one of the early passengers, and for several centuries, he remained a simple tourist. But he had odd skills leftover from his former life, and as different aliens boarded the Ship, he made friends with new ideas and fresh technologies. His shop was the natural outgrowth of all that learning. “Sir,” he said to the Vozzen. “Would you like to see what your money would buy?”

  “Of course.”

  “And your companion —?”

  “My aide will remain outside. Thank you.”

  The human-shaped creature seemed to expect that response. He walked under the bristlecone, tethering his pack to a whitened branch, and with an unreadable expression, stood at the canyon’s edge, staring into the glittering depths, watching for the invisible river, perhaps, or perhaps watching his own private thoughts.

  “By what name do I call you?”

  “Master is adequate.”

  Every Vozzen was named Master, in one fashion or another. With a nod. Ash began walking toward the shop’s doorway. “And your aide —”

  “Shadow.”

  “His name is?”

  “Shadow is an adequate translation.” Several jointed arms emerged from beneath his long body, complex hands tickling the edges of the door, a tiny sensor slipped from a pocket and pointed at the darkness inside. “Are you curious, Ash?”

  “About what, Master?”

  “My companion’s identity. It is a little mystery to you, I think.”

  “It is. Yes.”

  “Have you heard of the Aabacks?”

  “But I’ve never seen one.” Then after a silence, he mentioned, “They’re a rare species. With a narrow intelligence and a fierce loyalty, as I understand these things.”

  “They are rather simple souls,” Master replied. “But whatever their limits, or because of them, they make wonderful servants.”

  The tunnel grew darker, and then the walls fell away. With a silent command. Ash triggered the lights to awaken. In an instant, a great chamber was revealed, the floor tiled simply and the pine-faced ceiling arching high overhead, while the distant walls lay behind banks upon banks of machines that were barely awake, spelling themselves for those rare times when they were needed.

  “Are you curious, Master?”

  “Intensely and about many subjects,” said the Vozzen. “What particular subject are you asking about?”

  “How this magic works,” Ash replied, gesturing with an ancient, comfortable pride. “Not even the Ship’s captains can wield this technology. Within the confines of our galaxy, I doubt if there are three other facilities equally equipped.”

  “For memory retrieval,” Master added. “I know the theory at play here. You manipulate the electrons inside a client’s mind, increasing their various effects. And you manipulate the quantum nature of the universe, reaching into a trillion alternate but very similar realities. Then you combine these two quite subtle tricks, temporarily enlarging one mind’s ability to reminisce.”

  Ash nodded, stepping up to the main control panel.

  “I deplore that particular theory,” his client professed.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “That many-world image of the universe is obscene. To me, it is simply grotesque and relentlessly ridiculous, and I have never approved of it.”

  “Many feel that way,” Ash allowed.

  A genuine anger surged. “This concept of each electron existing in countless realities, swimming through an endless ocean of potential, with every possible outcome achieved to what resembles an infinite number of outcomes —”

  “We belong to one branch of reality,” Ash interrupted. “One minor branch in a great tree standing in an endless canopy in the multiverse forest —”

  “We are not,” Master growled.

  The controls awoke. Every glow-button and thousand-layer display had a theatrical purpose. Ash could just as easily manipulate the machinery through nexuses burned in his own body. But his clients normally appreciated this visible, traditional show of structured light and important sounds.

  “We are not a lonely reality lost among endless possibility.” In Vozzen fashion, the hind legs slapped each other in disgust. “I am a historian and a scholar of some well-earned notoriety. My long, long life has been spent in the acquisition of the past, and its interpretation, and I refuse to believe that what I have studied—this great pageant of time and story—is nothing more than some obscure twig shaking on the end of an impossible-to-measure shrub.”

  “I’m tempted to agree with you,” Ash replied.

  “Tempted?”

  “There are moments when I believe …” Ash paused, as if selecting his next words. “I see us as the one true reality. The universe is exactly as it seems to be. As it should be. And what I employ here is just a trick, a means of interacting with the ghost realities. With mathematical whispers and unborn potentials. In other words, we are the trunk of a great and ancient tree, and the dreamlike branches have no purpose but to feed our magnificent souls …!”

  The alien regarded Ash with a new respect. The respect showed in the silence, and then, with the hands opening, delicate spider-web fingers presenting themselves to what was, for at least this moment, their equal.

  “Is that what you believe now?” Master asked.

  “For the moment.” Ash laughed quietly. Two nexuses and one display showed the same information: The historian had enough capital to hire him and his machinery. “And I’ll keep believing it for a full day, if necessary.”

  Then he t
urned, bowing just enough. “What exactly is it that you wish to remember, Master?”

  The alien eyes lost their brightness.

  “I am not entirely sure,” the voice confessed with a simple horror. “I have forgotten something very important … something essential, I fear … but I can’t even recall what that something might be …”

  Hours had passed, but the projected sun hadn’t moved. The wind was unchanged, and the heat only seemed worse, as Ash stepped from the cool depths of his shop, his body momentarily forgetting to perspire. He had left his client alone, standing inside a cylindrical reader with a thousand flavors of sensors fixed to his carapace and floating free inside the ancient body and mind. Ash kept a close watch over the Vozzen. His nexuses showed him telemetry, and a mind’s eye let him watch the scene. If necessary, he could offer words of encouragement or warning. But for the moment, his client was obeying the strict instructions, standing as motionless as possible while the machines made intricate maps of his brain—a body-long array of superconducting proteins and light-baths and quantum artesians. The alien’s one slight cheat was his voice, kept soft as possible, but always busy, delivering an endless lecture about an arcane, mostly forgotten epoch.

  The mapping phase was essential, and quite boring.

  From a tiny slot in the pink granite wall, Ash plucked free a new cup of freshly brewed, deliciously bitter tea.

  “A pleasant view,” a nearby voice declared.

  “I like it.” Ash sipped his drink. As a rule, Aabacks appreciated liquid gifts, but he made no offer, strolling under the bristlecone, out of the wind and sun. “Do you know anything about the 31-3s?”

  “I know very little,” Shadow confessed. The voice was his own, his larynx able to produce clear if somewhat slow human words.

  “Their home is tidally locked and rather distant from its sun.” Ash explained. “Their atmosphere is rich in carbon dioxide, which my Martian lungs prefer.” He tapped his own chest. “Water vapor and carbon dioxide warm the day hemisphere, and the winds carry the excess heat and moisture to the cold nightside glaciers, which grow and push into the dawn, and melt, completing the cycle.” With an appreciative nod, he said, “The Ship’s engineers have done a magnificent job of replicating the 31-3 environment.”

  Shadow’s eyes were large and bright, colored a bluish gray. The pink teeth were heavy and flat-headed, suitable for a diet of rough vegetation. Powerful jaw muscles ballooned outwards when the mouth closed. A simple robe and rope belt were his only clothes. Four fingers and a thumb were on each hand, but nothing like a fingernail showed. Ash watched the hands, and then the bare, almost human feet. Reading the dirt, he felt certain that Shadow hadn’t moved since he had arrived. He was standing in the sun, in the wind, and like any scrupulously obedient servant, he seemed ready to remain on that patch of ground for another day, or twenty.

  “The 31-3s don’t believe in time,” Ash continued.

  A meaningful expression passed across the face. Curiosity? Disdain? Then with a brief glance toward Ash, he asked, “Is it the absence of days and nights?”

  “Partly. But only partly.”

  Shadow leaned forward slightly. On the bright road below, a pack of 31-3s was dancing along. Voices like brass chimes rose through the wind. Ash recognized his neighbors. He threw a little stone at them, to be polite. Then with a steady voice, he explained, “The endless day is a factor, sure. But they’ve always been a long-lived species. On their world, with its changeless climate and some extremely durable genetics, every species has a nearly immortal constitution. Where humans and Vozzens and Aabacks had to use modern bioengineering to conquer aging, the 31-3s evolved in a world where everything can live pretty much forever. That’s why time was never an important concept to them. And that’s why their native physics is so odd, and lovely—they formulated a vision of a universe that is almost, almost free of time.”

  The alien listened carefully. Then he quietly admitted, “Master has explained some of the same things to me, I think.”

  “You’re a good loyal audience,” Ash said.

  “It is my hope to be.”

  “What else do you do for Master?”

  “I help with all that is routine.” Shadow explained. “In every capacity, I give him aid and free his mind for great undertakings.”

  “But mostly, you listen to him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Vozzens are compulsive explainers.”

  “Aabacks are natural listeners,” said Shadow, with a hint of pride.

  “Do you remember what he tells you?”

  “Very little.” For an instant, the face seemed human. An embarrassed smile and a shy blinking of the blue-gray eyes preceded the quiet admission, “I do not have a Vozzen’s mind. And Master is an exceptional example of his species.”

  “You’re right,” said Ash. “On both accounts.”

  The alien shifted his feet, and again stared down at the 31-3s.

  “Come with me.”

  “He wants me here,” Shadow replied. Nothing in the voice was defiant, or even a little stubborn. He intended to obey the last orders given to him, and with his gentle indifference, he warned that he couldn’t be swayed.

  Sternly, Ash asked, “What does the Master want from this day?”

  The question brought a contemplative silence.

  “More than anything,” said Ash, “he wants to recover what’s most precious to him. And that is —”

  “His memory.”

  Again, Ash said, “Come with me.”

  “For what good?”

  “He talks to you. And yes, you’ve likely forgotten what he can’t remember.” Ash finished his tea in one long sip. “But likely and surely are two different words. So if you truly wish to help your friend, come with me. Come now.”

  “I do not deserve solitude,” the Vozzen reported. “If you intend to abandon me, warn me. You must.”

  “I will.”

  Then, “Do you feel that?”

  “Do I … what …?”

  “Anything. Do you sense anything unusual?”

  The alien was tethered to a new array of sensors, plus devices infinitely more intrusive. Here and in a hundred trillion alternate realities, Master stood in the same position, legs locked and arms folded against his belly, his voice slightly puzzled, admitting, “I seem to be remembering my cradle nest.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “It is unlikely,” the Vozzen admitted. “I don’t often —”

  “And now?”

  “My first mate,” he began. “In the nest, overlooking a fungal garden —”

  “What about now?”

  He paused, and then admitted, “Your ship. I am seeing the Great Ship from space, our taxi making its final approach.” With a warm laugh, he offered, “It is a historian’s dream, riding in a vessel such as this —”

  “And now?” Ash prompted.

  Silence.

  “Where are you —?”

  “Inside a lecture hall,” Master replied.

  “When?”

  “Eleven months in the past. I am giving a public lecture.” He paused, and then explained, “I make a modest living, speaking to interested parties.”

  “What do you remember about that day’s lecture?”

  “Everything,” Master began to say. But the voice faltered, and with a doubting tone, he said, “A woman?”

  “What woman?”

  “A human woman.”

  “What about her?” Ash pressed.

  “She was attending … sitting in a seat to my right …? No, my left. How odd. I usually know where to place every face —”

  “What was the topic?”

  “Topic?”

  “Of your lecture. The topic.”

  “A general history of the Great Wheel of Smoke —”

  “The Milky Way,” Ash interrupted.

  “Your name for everyone’s galaxy, yes.” With a weblike hand, the alien reached in front of his own face. “I was shari
ng a very shallow overview of our shared history, naming the most important species of the last three billion years.” The hand closed on nothing, and retreated. “For many reasons, there have been few genuinely important species. They have been modestly abundant, and some rather wealthy. But I was making the point … the critical line of reasoning … that since the metal-rich worlds began spawning intelligence, no single species, or related cluster of sentient organisms, have been able to dominate more than a small puff of the Smoke.”

  “Why is that?”

  The simple question unleashed a flood of thoughts, recollections, and abstract ideas, filling the displays with wild flashes of color and elaborate, highly organized shapes.

  “There are many reasons,” Master warned.

  “Name three.”

  “Why? Do you wish to learn?”

  “I want to pass the time pleasantly,” said Ash, studying the data with a blank, almost impassive face. “Three reasons why no species can dominate. Give them to me, in brief.”

  “Distance. Divergence. And divine wisdom.”

  “The distance between stars … is that what you mean …?”

  “Naturally,” the historian replied. “Star-flight remains slow and expensive and potentially dangerous. Many species find those reasons compelling enough to remain at home, safe and comfortable, reengineering the spacious confines of their own solar system.”

  “Divergence?”

  “A single species can evolve in many fashions. New organic forms. Joining with machines. Becoming machines. Sweeping cultural experiments. Even the total obliteration of physical bodies. No species can dominate any portion of space if what it becomes is many, many new and oftentimes competing species.”

  Ash blinked slowly. “What about divine wisdom?”

  “That is the single most important factor,” said Master. “Ruling the heavens is a child’s desire.”

  “True enough.”

  “The galaxy is not a world, or even a hundred thousand worlds. It is too vast and chaotic to embrace, and with maturity comes the wisdom to accept that simple impossibility.”