The Year's Best SF 09 # 1991

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

  “1 Simons.” A fat kid clumped up the step well and saw her. “Someone on already.” He brushed his card across the pay port. “Lady, where you goin’, lady?”

  Ruth fixed her gaze on the buttons of his blue-striped Shop ‘n’ Save shirt; one had come undone. She avoided eye contact so he would not see how tense she was. She said nothing.

  The second one bumped into the fat kid. “Move, sweatlips!” He was wearing the uniform shirt tucked into red shorts. He had shaved legs. She did not look at his face either.

  “Please take your seat,” said the carbrain. “Current stops are 14 Hampshire Road and 1 Simons Lane. Destination, please?”

  “Stoke Hall,” said Chaz.

  “Hey, Hampshire’s the wrong way, lady. Get off, would ya?”

  “Yeah, make yourself useful for a change.” Red Shorts plopped his groceries onto the bench opposite Ruth and sprawled next to them. Ruth said nothing; she saw Chaz paying the carbrain.

  “Wanna throw her off?”

  Ruth clenched her fists and touched the triggers of her cuffs.

  “Just leave her and stretch the ride.” Chaz settled beside the others. “’Less you wanna get back to work.”

  The fat kid grunted, and the logic of sloth carried the day. Ruth eased off the triggers as the mini jolted through the potholes in the lot and turned back onto Mill Road. The boys started joking about a war they had seen on the wall. Even though they seemed to have forgotten her, the side of Ruth’s neck prickled as if someone were still staring. When she finally dared peek, she saw Chaz grinning slyly at her, like she expected a tip. It made Ruth angry. She wanted to slap the girl.

  They looped around downtown past the post office, St. Thomas More Church and the droods’ mall. The mall was actually a flea market which had accreted over the years in the parking lot off Pettee Brook Lane: salvaged lumber and old car parts and plastic sheeting over chicken wire had been cobbled together to make about thirty stalls. It was where people who lived in the dorms went. When the hawkers saw the mini coming, they swarmed into the street to slow it down. Ruth saw teens waving hand-lettered signs advertising rugs, government surplus cheese, bicycles, plumbing supplies stripped from abandoned houses, cookies, obsolete computers. A man in a tank top wearing at least twenty watches on each arm gestured frantically at her to get off the mini. They said you could also buy drugs and meat and guns at the mall, and what they did not have, they could steal to order. Ruth, of course, had never gone there herself but she had heard all about it. Everyone had. The cops raided the mall regularly, but no one dared close it down for good.

  The fat kid reached across the aisle and snatched the abandoned paper sack. “This yours lady?” He jiggled it then unrolled the top. “Oh, shit.” He took the frog out, holding it by the legs so that its stomach bulged at the sides. “Oh, shit, gonna kill the bastard did this.”

  “Sweet,” said Red Shorts. “Someone left us a present.”

  “It’s suffocatin’.” The fat kid stood, swayed against the momentum of the mini and lurched toward Ruth. “They need water to breathe, same as we need air.” When he thrust it at her, the frog’s eyes bulged as if they might pop. “And you just sit here, doin’ nothing.” Rage twisted his face.

  “I—I didn’t know,” said Ruth. The frog was so close that she thought he meant to shove it down her throat. “I swear, I never looked inside.”

  “So it’s dyin’,” said Red Shorts. “So let’s stomp it. Come on, put it out of misery.” He winked at Chaz. “Grandma here wants to see guts squirt out its mouth.”

  “I’ll do your bones, you touch this frog.” The fat kid stormed down the aisle to the door. “Stop here,” he said. “Let me out.”

  The mini pulled over. Red Shorts called to him. “Hey sweatlips, who’s gonna help me deliver groceries?”

  “Fuck you.” Ruth could not tell whether he was cursing Red Shorts, her or the world in general.

  The door opened. The fat kid got off, cut in front of the mini and headed across town toward Mill Pond. Red Shorts turned to Chaz. “Likes frogs.” He was still smirking as they drove off. “Thinks he’s a Green.”

  She was not amused. “You leave it for him to find?”

  “Maybe.”

  The mini had by now entered the old UNH campus. Online university had killed most residential colleges; the climate shift had triggered the depression which had finished the rest. But the buildings had not stood empty for long. People lost jobs, then houses; when they got hungry enough, they came looking for help. The campuses were converted into emergency refugee centers for families with dependent children. Eight years later, temporary housing had become permanent droodtowns. Nobody knew why the refugees were called droods. Some said the word came from the now-famous song, others claimed that the Droods had been a real homeless family. The mini passed several of the smaller dorms and then turned off Main Street onto Garrison Avenue. Ahead to the left was Stoke Hall. Red Shorts whispered something to Chaz, who frowned. It was getting harder and harder to ignore them; she could tell they were plotting something.

  Nine stories tall, Stoke was the biggest dorm on campus. When Ruth had gone to UNH, it had housed about sixteen hundred students. She had heard that there were at least four thousand droods there now, most of them kids, almost all of them under thirty. Stoke was a Y-shaped brick monster; two huge jaws gaped at the street. Its foundation was decorated with trash dropped from windows. The packed dirt basketball court, dug into the sloping front courtyard, was empty. The players loitered in the middle of the street, watching a wrecker hitch a tow to a stalled water truck. The mini slowed to squeeze by and Chaz slid onto the bench beside Ruth.

  “Wanna get off and look?” She nodded at the dorm.

  “Huh?” Red Shorts had a mouth full of celery he had stolen from one of the bags. “Talkin’ to me?”

  “Up there.” As she leaned over to point at the upper floors, Chaz actually brushed against Ruth. “Two down, three left. Where I live.”

  The girl’s sweaty skin caught at the fabric at Ruth’s sleeve. Ruth did not like being touched. Over the years, she had gotten used to meeting people electronically, through the walls. Those few she did choose to see were the kind of people who bathed and wore clean shirts. People who took care of themselves. Chaz was so close that Ruth felt sick. It was as if the girl’s smokey stink were curdling in the back of her throat. She needed to get away, but there was nowhere to go. She fought the impulse to blow Chaz a face full of Knockdown, because then she would have to gas Red Shorts, too. And what if one of them managed to call for help? She imagined the mob of basketball players stopping the mini and pulling her off. She would be lucky if all they did was beat her, the way they had beaten Matt. More likely she would be raped, killed, they were animals, she could smell them.

  “C’mon,” said Chaz. “You show your place. I show mine.”

  Ruth’s voice caught in her throat like a bone. The mini cleared the water truck and pulled up in front of the dorm. “Stoke Hall,” said the carbrain. It opened the door.

  “What you say, lady?” Chaz stood. “Won’t hurt.”

  “Much.” Red Shorts snickered.

  “You shut up,” said Chaz.

  Ruth stared at the words on her T-shirt, “For a nickel I will.” She felt for the triggers and shook her head.

  “How come I gotta play lick ass?” Chaz squatted so that her face was level with Ruth’s; she forced eye contact. “Just wanna talk.” The girl feigned sincerity so well that Ruth wavered momentarily.

  “Yeah,” said Red Shorts, “like ‘bout how you pigs ate the world.”

  Ruth started to shake. “Leave me alone.” It was all happening too fast.

  “Stoke Hall,” repeated the carbrain.

  “Okay, okay,” Chaz rose up, disgusted. “So forget it. You don’t gotta say nothing to droods. You happy, you rich, so fuck me.” She turned and walked away.

  Ruth had not expected Chaz to be wounded, and suddenly she was furious with the foolish gir
l. Her invitation was a bad joke. A woman like Ruth could not take three steps into that place before someone would hit her over the head and drag her into a room. Chaz wanted to make friends after everything that had happened? It was too late, way too late.

  She was already halfway down the step well when Red Shorts leaned toward Ruth. “You old bitch pig.” His face was slick with greasy sweat; these droods had no right to talk to her that way. Without thinking, she thrust her fist at him and emptied a clip of Knockdown into his eyes.

  He screamed and lurched backward against the grocery sacks, which tipped off the bench and spilled. He bounced and pitched face down on the floor, thrashing in the litter of noodle soup bulbs and bright packages of candy. Ruth had never used riot gas before and she was stunned at its potency. Truth in advertising, she thought, and almost laughed out loud. Chaz came down the aisle.

  “Get off.” Ruth raised her other fist. “Get the hell off. Now!”

  Chaz backed away, still gaping at the boy, whose spasms had subsided to twitching. Then she clattered down the steps and ran up the street toward the basketball players. Ruth knew at that moment she was doomed, but the carbrain closed the door and the mini pulled away from the curb, and she realized that she had gotten away with it. She did laugh then; the sound seemed to come to her from a great distance.

  Suddenly she was shivering in the afternoon heat. She had to do something, so she grabbed Red Shorts by the shoulders and muscled him back onto a bench. She had not meant to hurt anyone. It was an accident, not her fault. She felt better as she picked up the spilled groceries, repacked them and arranged the sacks neatly beside him. He didn’t look so bad, she thought. He was napping; it would not be the first time someone had fallen asleep on the minibus. She retrieved an apple from under the bench.

  She got so involved pretending that nothing was wrong that she was surprised when the mini stopped.

  “14 Hampshire,” said the carbrain.

  Ruth regarded her victim one last time. Since she had tried her best to put things back the way they were supposed to be, she decided to forgive herself. She grabbed her tote bag, stepped off and hurried to the front door of Mart’s decaying colonial. By the time the mini rumbled off, she had pushed the unpleasantness from her mind. She owed it to him to be cheerful.

  Ruth had not been out to Matt’s house since last fall; usually he visited her. It was worse than she remembered. He could not keep the place up on his pension. Paint had chipped off the shingles, exposing gray wood. Some of them had curled in the sun. A rain gutter was pulling away from the roof. Poor Matt couldn’t afford to stay, but he couldn’t afford to sell, either. No one was buying real estate in Durham. She heard him unlocking the door and made herself smile.

  “Ruth! I thought I told you to stay home.”

  “Mr. Watson? Mr. Matthew Watson of 14 Hampshire Road?” She consulted an imaginary clipboard. “Are you the gentleman who ordered the surprise party?”

  “I can’t believe you did this.” He tugged her inside and shut the door. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is out there?”

  She shrugged. “So, are you glad to see me?” She put down her tote and opened her arms to him.

  “Yes, of course, but…” He leaned forward and gave her a stony peck on the cheek. “This is serious, Ruth.”

  “That’s right. I seriously missed you.”

  “Don’t make jokes. You don’t understand these people. You could’ve been hurt.” He softened then and hugged her. She stayed in his embrace longer than he wanted—she could tell—but that was all right. His arms shut the world out; his strength stopped time. Nothing had happened, nothing could happen. She had not realized how lonesome she had been. She did not even mind his cast jabbing her.

  “Are you okay, Ruth?” he murmured. “Is everything all right?”

  “Fine.” Eventually she had to let him go. “Fine.”

  “It’s good to see you,” he said, and gave her an embarrassed smile. “Even if you are crazy. Come into the kitchen.”

  Matt poured the Medoc into coffee cups and they toasted their friendship. “Here’s to twenty-six years.” Actually, she had been friends with Greta before she knew Matt. Ruth set the tupperware on the counter. “What should I serve the fish on?” She opened the china cabinet and frowned. Matt was such a typical bachelor: he had none of the right dishes.

  “I’m glad you came over,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. I suppose I could tell you through the wall, but…”

  “Tell me?” She dusted a cracked bowl with the edge of her sleeve.

  He ran his finger around the rim of the cup and shrugged uncomfortably. “You know how lonely I’ve been since the … since I broke my hip. I think that’s my biggest problem. I can’t go out anymore, and I can’t live here by myself.”

  For a few thrilling seconds, Ruth misunderstood. “Oh?” She thought he was going to ask her to live with him. It was something she had often fantasized about.

  “Anyway, I’ve been talking to people at Human Services and I’ve decided to take in some boarders.”

  “Boarders?” She still did not understand. “Droods?”

  “Refugees. I know how you feel, but they’re people just like us, and the state will pay me to house them. I have more room than I need, and I can use the money.”

  Her hands felt numb. “I don’t believe this. Really, Matt, haven’t you learned anything?” She had to put the bowl down before she dropped it. “You go to the dorms to tutor, and they beat you up. They crippled you. So now you’re going to bring the animals right into your own house?”

  “They’re not animals. I know several families who would jump at the chance to leave the dorms. Kids, Ruth. Babies.”

  “Look, if it’s only money, let me help. Please.”

  “No, that’s not it. You said something this morning. I’m a teacher all right, except I have no one to teach. That’s why I feel so useless. I need to—”

  A window shattered in the bedroom.

  “What was that?” Matt bolted from his chair, knocking his wine over.

  “There are many people on the street,” announced the homebrain. “They are destroying property.”

  Ruth heard several angry thwocks against the side of the house and then more glass broke. She felt as if a shard had lodged in her chest. Someone outside was shouting. Wine pooled on the floor like blood.

  “Call the police.” Matt could not afford private security.

  “The line is busy.”

  “Keep trying, damn it!”

  He limped to the bedroom, the only room with a window wall; Ruth followed. There was a stone the size of a heart on the bed, glass scattered across the rug.

  “Show,” said Matt.

  The wall revealed a mob of at least a hundred droods. Basketball players, hawkers from the mall, kids from Stoke. And Chaz. Ruth was squeezing her security pager so hard that her hand hurt.

  “Hey, walter, send the bitch out!”

  She had been so stupid. Of course Chaz had heard the carbrain repeat Mart’s address.

  “Boomers. Fuckin’ oldies.”

  She had never understood why they were all so eager to hate people like her and Matt. It was not fair to punish an entire generation.

  “Burn ’em. Send the pigs to hell!”

  The politicians were to blame, the corporations. They were the ones responsible. It was not her fault; she was just one person. “Go ahead, Matt,” she said bitterly. “Teach them about us.” Ruth pressed herself into the corner of his bedroom. “Maybe we should invite them in for a nice glass of wine?”

  “What is this, Ruth?” Matt grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “What did you do?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing,” she said.

  THE MOAT

  Greg Egan

  Here’s another first-rate story by Greg Egan, this one from a little-known Australian magazine called Aurealis.…

  I’m first into the office, so I clean off the night’s gr
affiti before clients start to arrive. It’s not hard work; we’ve had all the external surfaces coated, so a scrubbing brush and warm water is all it takes. When I’m finished, I find I can scarcely remember what any of it said; I’ve reached the stage where I can stare at the slogans and insults without even reading them.

  All the petty intimidation is like that; it’s a shock at first, but eventually it just fades into a kind of irritating static. Graffiti, phone calls, hate mail. We used to get megabytes of automated invective via DataMail; but that, at least, turned out to be easily fixed. We installed the latest screening software, and fed it a few samples of the kind of transmission we preferred not to receive.

  I don’t know for certain who’s coordinating all this aggravation, but it’s not hard to guess. There’s a group calling themselves Fortress Australia, who’ve started putting up posters on bus shelters: obscene caricatures of Melanesians, portrayed as cannibals adorned with human bones, leering over cooking pots filled with screaming white babies. The first time I saw one, I thought it was, surely, an advertisement for an exhibition of Racist Cartoons From Nineteenth Century Publications; some kind of scholarly deconstruction of the sins of the distant past. When I finally realised that I was looking at real, contemporary propaganda; I didn’t know whether to feel sickened—or heartened by the sheer crudity of the thing. I thought, so long as the anti-refugee groups keep insulting people’s intelligence with shit like this, they’re not likely to get much support beyond the lunatic fringe.

  Some Pacific islands are losing their land slowly, year by year; others are being rapidly eroded by the so-called Greenhouse storms. I’ve heard plenty of quibbling about the precise definition of the term “environmental refugee,” hut there’s not much room for ambiguity when your home is literally vanishing into the ocean. Nevertheless, it still takes a lawyer to steer each application for refugee status through the tortuous bureaucratic processes. Matheson & Singh are hardly the only practice in Sydney to handle this kind of work, but for some reason we seem to have been singled out for harassment by the isolationists. Perhaps it’s the premises; I imagine it takes a good deal less courage to daub paint on a converted terrace house in Newtown, than to attack a gleaming office tower in Macquarie Street, bristling with security hardware.