Do you begin to understand? It seems that, from the moment they arrived here, in the late part of the twentieth century, they changed the past so that they had already arrived several times before. We have the history books to prove that they did. The fact that no one remembers these stories being in the history books before they arrived this time must be seen as an object lesson. One assumes they could have changed our memories of events as easily as the events themselves. That they did not do so means they meant us to be impressed. Had they changed both the events and our memories of them, no one would be the wiser; we would all assume history had always been that way because that’s the way we remembered it.
The whole idea of history books must be a tremendous joke to them, since they don’t experience time consecutively.
Had enough? There’s more.
They can do more than add things to our history. They can take things away. Things like the World Trade Center. That’s right, go look for it. It’s not out there, and we didn’t tear it down. It never existed in this world, except in our memories. It’s like a big, shared illusion.
Other things have turned up missing as well. Things such as Knoxville, Tennessee; Lake Huron; the Presidency of William McKinley; the Presbyterian Church; the rhinoceros (including the fossil record of its ancestors); Jack the Ripper (and all the literary works written about him); the letter Q; and Ecuador.
Presbyterians still remember their faith and have built new churches to replace the ones that were never built. Who needed the goddamn rhino, anyway? Another man served McKinley’s term (and was also assassinated). Seeing book after book where “kw” replaces “q” is only amusing—and very kweer. But the people of Knoxville—and a dozen other towns around the world—never existed. They are still trying to sort out the real estate around where Lake Huron used to be. And you can search the world’s atlases in vain for any sight of Ecuador.
The best wisdom is that the Martians could do even more, if they wanted to. Such as wiping out the element oxygen, the charge on the electron, or, of course, the planet Earth.
They invaded, and they won quite easily.
And their weapon is very much like an editor’s blue pencil. Rather than destroy our world, they re-write it.
* * *
So what does all this have to do with me, I hear you cry.
Why couldn’t I have lived out my one day on Earth without worrying about this?
Well … who do you think is paying for this fabulous apartment?
The grateful taxpayers, that’s who. You didn’t think you’d get original Picassos on the walls if you were nothing more than a brain-damaged geek, did you?
And why are the taxpayers grateful?
Because anything that keeps the Martians happy, keeps the taxpayers happy. The Martians scare hell out of everyone … and you are their fairhaired boy.
Why?
Because you don’t experience time like the rest of humanity does.
You start fresh every day. You haven’t had fifteen years to think about the Martians, you haven’t developed any prejudice toward them or their way of thinking.
Maybe.
Most of that could be bullshit. We don’t know if prejudice has anything to do with it … but you do see time differently. The fact is, the best mathematicians and physicists in the world have tried to deal with the Martians, and the Martians aren’t interested. Every day they come to talk to you.
Most days, nothing is accomplished. They spend an hour, then go wherever it is they go, in whatever manner they do it. One day out of a hundred, you get an insight. Everything I’ve told you so far is the result of those insights being compiled—
—along with the work of others. There are a few hundred of you, around the world. No other man or woman has your peculiar affliction; all are what most people would call mentally limited. There are the progressive amnesiacs I mentioned earlier. There are people with split-brain disorders, people with almost unbelievable perceptual aberrations, such as the woman who has lost the concept of “right.” Left is the only direction that exists in her brain.
The Martians spend time with these people, people like you.
So we tentatively conclude this about the Martians:
They want to teach us something.
It is painfully obvious they could have destroyed us any time they wished to do so. They have enslaved us, in the sense that we are pathetically eager to do anything we even suspect they might want us to do. But they don’t seem to want to do anything with us. They’ve made no move to breed us for meat animals, conscript us into slave labor camps, or rape women. They have simply arrived, demonstrated their powers, and started talking to people like you.
No one knows if we can learn what they are trying to teach us. But it behooves us to try, wouldn’t you think?
* * *
Again, you say: Why me?
Or even more to the point: Why should I care?
I know your bitterness, and I understand it. Why should you spend even an hour of your precious time on problems you don’t really care about, when it would be much easier and more satisfying spending your sixteen hours of awareness gnawing on yourself, wallowing in self-pity, and in general being a one-man soap opera.
There are two reasons.
One: You were never that kind of person. You’ve just about exhausted your store of self-pity during the process of reading this letter. If you have only one day—though it hurts like hell … so be it! You will spend that day doing something useful.
Reason number two …
You’ve been looking at the third picture off and on since you first picked it up, haven’t you? (Come on, you can’t lie to me.)
She’s very pretty, isn’t she?
And that thought is unworthy of you, since you know where this letter is coming from. She would not be offered to you as a bribe. The project managers know you well enough to avoid offering you a piece of ass to get your cooperation.
Her name is Marian.
Let us speak of love for a moment.
You were in love once before. You remember how it was, if you’ll allow yourself. You remember the pain … but that came later, didn’t it? When she rejected you. Do you remember what it felt like the day you fell in love? Think back, you can get it.
The simple fact is, it’s why the world spins. Just the possibility of love has kept you going in the three years since Karen.
Well, let me tell you. Marian is in love with you, and before the day is over, you will be in love with her. You can believe that or not, as you choose, but I, at the end of my life here this day, can take as one of my few consolations that I/you will have, tomorrow/ today, the exquisite pleasure of falling in love with Marian.
I envy you, you skeptical bastard.
* * *
And since it’s just you and me, I’ll add this. Even with a girl you don’t love, “the first time” is always pretty damn interesting, isn’t it?
For you, it’s always the first time … except when it’s the second time, just before you sleep … which Marian seems to be suggesting this very moment.
* * *
As usual, I have anticipated all your objections.
You think it might be tough for her? You think she’s suffering?
Okay. Admitted, the first few hours are what you might call repetitive for her. You gotta figure she’s bored, by now, at your invariant behavior when you first wake up. But it is a cross she bears willingly for the pleasure of your company during the rest of the day.
She is a healthy, energetic girl, one who is aware that no woman ever had such an attentive, energetic lover. She loves a man who is endlessly fascinated by her, body and soul, who sees her with new eyes each and every day.
She loves your perpetual enthusiasm, your renewable infatuation.
There isn’t time to fall out of love.
Anything more I could say would be wasting your time, and believe me, when you see what today is going to be like, you’d hate me for it.
We could wish things were different. It is not fair that we have only one day. I, who am at the end of it, can feel the pain you only sense. I have my wonderful memories … which will soon be gone. And I have Marian, for a few more minutes.
But I swear to you, I feel like an old, old man who has lived a full life, who has no regrets for anything he ever did, who accomplished something in his life, who loved, and was loved in return.
Can many “normal” people die saying that?
In just a few seconds that one, last locked door will open, and your new life and future love will come through it. I guarantee it will be interesting.
I love you, and I now leave you …
Have a nice day.
JANET KAGAN
The Loch Moose Monster
Although she has only been selling for a few years, Janet Kagan is rapidly building a large and enthusiastic audience for her work, and may well become a figure of note in the 1990s. Her first novel, a Star Trek novel called Uhura’s Song, was a nationwide best-seller, and her second novel Hellspark (not a Star Trek novel) was greeted with similar warmth and enthusiasm. She is a frequent contributor to Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, and has also sold to Pulphouse and Analog. Her linked series of stories about Mama Jason has proved to be one of the most popular series to run in IAsfm in recent years, with the initial story, “The Loch Moose Monster,” winning this year’s IAsfm Reader’s Award Poll by a large margin; the series will be issued in book form by Tor in the near future. She lives in Lincoln Park, New Jersey, with her husband Ricky, several computers, and lots of cats.
In the wry and suspenseful story that follows, she takes us along to the frontier planet Mirabile to meet a woman whose job it is to cope with some very dangerous and very odd creatures, and follows her as she unravels a compelling biological mystery.
The Loch Moose Monster
JANET KAGAN
This year the Ribeiros’ daffodils seeded early and they seeded cockroaches. Now ecologically speaking, even a cockroach has its place—but these suckers bit. That didn’t sound Earth authentic to me. Not that I care, mind you, all I ask is useful. I wasn’t betting on that either.
As usual, we were short-handed—most of the team was up-country trying to stabilize a herd of Guernseys—which left me and Mike to throw a containment tent around the Ribeiro place while we did the gene-reads on the roaches and the daffodils that spawned ‘em. Dragon’s Teeth, sure enough, and worse than useless. I grabbed my gear and went in to clean them out, daffodils and all.
By the time I crawled back out of the containment tent, exhausted, cranky, and thoroughly bitten, there wasn’t a daffodil left in town. Damn fools. If I’d told ‘em the roaches were Earth authentic they’d have cheered ‘em, no matter how obnoxious they were.
I didn’t even have the good grace to say hi to Mike when I slammed into the lab. The first thing out of my mouth was, “The red daffodils—in front of Sagdeev’s.”
“I got ‘em,” he said. “Nick of time, but I got ‘em. They’re in the greenhouse—”
We’d done a gene-read on that particular patch of daffodils the first year they’d flowered red: they promised to produce a good strain of preying mantises, probably Earth authentic. We both knew how badly Mirabile needed insectivores. The other possibility was something harmless but pretty that ship’s records called “fireflies.” Either would have been welcome, and those idiots had been ready to consign both to a fire.
“I used the same soil, Annie, so don’t give me that look.”
“Town’s full of fools,” I growled, to let him know that look wasn’t aimed at him. “Same soil, fine, but can we match the rest of the environmental conditions those preying mantises need in the goddamn greenhouse?”
“It’s the best we’ve got,” he said. He shrugged and his right hand came up bandaged. I glared at it.
He dropped the bandaged hand behind the lab bench. “They were gonna burn ‘em. I couldn’t—” He looked away, looked back. “Annie, it’s nothing to worry about—”
I’d have done the same myself, true, but that was no reason to let him get into the habit of taking fool risks.
I started across to check out his hand and give him pure hell from close up. Halfway there the com blatted for attention. Yellow light on the console, meaning it was no emergency, but I snatched it up to deal with the interruption before I dealt with Mike. I snapped a “Yeah?” at the screen.
“Mama Jason?”
Nobody calls me that but Elly’s kids. I glowered at the face on screen: my age, third-generation Mirabilan, and not so privileged. “Annie Jason Masmajean,” I corrected, “Who wants to know?”
“Leonov Bellmaker Denness at this end,” he said. “I apologize for my improper use of your nickname.” Ship’s manners—he ignored my rudeness completely.
The name struck me as vaguely familiar but I was in no mood to search my memory; I’d lost my ship’s manners about three hours into the cockroach clean-out. “State your business,” I said.
To his credit, he did: “Two of Elly’s lodgers claim there’s a monster in Loch Moose. By their description, it’s a humdinger.”
I was all ears now. Elly runs the lodge at Loch Moose for fun—her profession’s raising kids. (Elly Raiser Roget, like her father before her. Our population is still so small we can’t afford to lose genes just because somebody’s not suited, one way or another, for parenting.) A chimera anywhere near Loch Moose was a potential disaster. Thing of it was, Denness didn’t sound right for that. “Then why aren’t they making this call?”
He gave a deep-throated chuckle. “They’re in the dining room gorging themselves on Chris’s shrimp. I doubt they’ll make you a formal call when they’re done. Their names are Emile Pilot Stirzaker and Francois Cobbler Pastides and, right now, they can’t spell either without dropping letters.”
So he thought they’d both been smoking dumbweed. Fair enough. I simmered down and reconsidered him. I’d’ve bet money he was the one who side-tracked Pastides and Stirzaker into the eating binge.
Recognition struck at last: this was the guy Elly’s kids called “Noisy.” The first thing he’d done on moving into the neighborhood was outshout every one of ‘em in one helluva contest. He was equally legendary for his stories, his bells, and his ability to keep secrets. I hadn’t met him, but I’d sure as hell heard tell.
I must have said the nickname aloud, because Denness said, “Yes, ‘Noisy.’ Is that enough to get me a hearing?”
“It is.” It was my turn to apologize. “Sorry. What more do you want me to hear?”
“You should, I think, hear Stirzaker imitate his monster’s bellow of rage.”
It took me a long moment to get his drift, but get it I did. “I’m on my way,” I said. I snapped off and started repacking my gear.
Mike stared at me. “Annie? What did I miss?”
“You ever know anybody who got auditory hallucinations on dumbweed?”
“Shit,” he said, “No.” He scrambled for his own pack.
“Not you,” I said. “I need you here to coddle those daffodils, check the environmental conditions that produced ‘em, and call me if Dragon’s Teeth pop up anywhere else.” I shouldered my pack and finished with a glare and a growl: “That should be enough to keep you out of bonfires while I’m gone, shouldn’t it?”
* * *
By the time I grounded in the clearing next to Elly’s lodge, I’d decided I was on a wild moose chase. Yeah, I know the Earth authentic is wild goose, but “wild moose” was Granddaddy Jason’s phrase. He’d known Jason—the original first generation Jason—well before the Dragon’s Teeth had started popping up.
One look at the wilderness where Elly’s lodge is now and Jason knew she had the perfect EC for moose. She hauled the embryos out of ship’s storage and set them thawing. Built up a nice little herd of the things and turned ‘em loose. Not a one of them survived—damn foolish creatures died of a taste for a Mirabilan plant they couldn�
��t metabolize.
Trying to establish a viable herd got to be an obsession with Jason. She must’ve spent years at it, off and on. She never succeeded but somebody with a warped sense of humor named the lake Loch Moose and it stuck, moose or no moose.
Loch Moose looked as serene as it always did this time of year. The waterlilies were in full bloom—patches of velvety red and green against the sparkles of sunlight off the water. Here and there I saw a ripple of real trout, Earth authentic.
On the bank to the far right, Susan’s troop of otters played tag, skidding down the incline and hitting the water with a splash. They whistled encouragement to each other like a pack of fans at a ballgame. Never saw a creature have more pure fun than an otter—unless it was a dozen otters, like now.
The pines were that dusty gold that meant I’d timed it just right to see Loch Moose smoke. There’s nothing quite so beautiful as that drift of pollen fog across the loch. It would gild rocks and trees alike until the next rainfall.
Monster, my ass—but where better for a wild moose chase?
I clambered down the steps to Elly’s lodge, still gawking at the scenery, so I was totally unprepared for the EC in the lobby. If that bright-eyed geneticist back on Earth put the double-whammy on any of the human genes in the cold banks they sent along (swore they hadn’t, but after the kangaroo rex, damnify believe anything the old records tell me), the pandemonium I found would have been enough to kick off Dragon’s Teeth by the dozens.
Amid the chaos, Ilanith, Elly’s next-to-oldest, was handling the oversized gilt ledger with great dignity. She lit up when she saw me and waved. Then she bent down for whispered conversation. A second later Jen, the nine-year-old, exploded from behind the desk, bellowing, “Elleeeeee! Nois-eeeeee! Come quick! Mama Jason’s here!” The kid’s lungpower cut right through the chaos and startled the room into a momentary hush. She charged through the door to the dining room, still trying to shout the house down.
The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Seventh Annual Collection Page 69