The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Fourteenth Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  “If you’re sure that’s what you want…” Duwayne looked doubtful.

  He wasn’t in any mood for Duwayne’s second thoughts, so he just looked at him. Duwayne tripped over a fallen chair as he hustled back to the cart.

  Roy said, “What are you trying to do?”

  “Fill a vaccuum, I think.”

  Roy stood up, his face flushed. When Julian was eight he had accidentally erased Roy’s Magic City, one he had spent four months building. Eleven-year-old Roy had hit Julian in the mouth; now he looked as though he was about to do the same thing. But forty-year-old Roy Tallet, Level C manager, was not about to get violent. He knew it would show up on his scans and bring a maintenance penalty. “You’ll never get away with it.”

  “Get yourself on the undernet and make a bet.”

  * * *

  It was a week before Julian could again take up his place at the Seagull, and even as he sat with Duwayne and Ty, he realized it was not the same. The Seagull had been hard hit by the one-two punch of the IA visit and the spinquake; its windows were gone and paneling was missing.

  Business was still not back to normal. Well, it would never be what it was before the burnthrough. Management was still trying to bring up the new Mission net, but already the undernet had gotten several hundred new subscribers. Some of them wanted what the undernet had to offer—sex, gambling, pharmaceuticals—but just as many couldn’t be tempted. They wanted secure volume. They wanted food. They wanted to go to Alpha Cen.

  Dealing with it all required endless facing. At one point, Duwayne had grown impatient, getting up and walking away. Even loyal Ty spoke up. “Mr. Tallet, why don’t you get yourself integrated? It’d make everything so much easier.”

  Julian glared and Ty changed the subject. A few moments later Duwayne came back. “Visitor,” was all he said. The visitor was Roy, looking much better than the last time they had met.

  “Sit down.”

  “I can’t stay long. I’m just delivering a message.” Roy glanced at Duwayne, who took the hint and got out of the booth as Roy slid in. “Riordan wants to face.”

  “The phones are working.”

  “He wanted me to prep you. He’s going to offer you a job.”

  “I’ve got a job.”

  “A job in Management, Level C.”

  A job in Level C. The idea was so ridiculous that Julian didn’t have a prepared reason for rejection. “I thought it was against the rules for the two of us to be there.”

  Roy smiled faintly. “You know, I had scheduled myself in maintenance deliberately to see you again.”

  “Why?”

  “I was actually going to warn you about the moves against all of Agon Systems’s … sidelines.”

  “Well, why didn’t you?”

  “You were being an asshole. And so was I.” Roy sighed. “We just finished a new study and that showed seventy percent of Mission Pop logged onto the undernet at any given time. Half of them were Management. Usage was higher than it was for Mission. It shocked everyone on C, believe me. You’ve got to remember, Management started out as a bunch of engineers. For fifty years they’ve been trying to build a whole goddamn world—not just the hardware, but right down to deciding what was right to eat and drink and do. It didn’t work. It was never going to work. It was about as useful as voting that two and two equal five.

  “I wanted to warn you. I thought they were making a mistake, trying to fight you. I mean, if you weren’t running those activities … someone else would. I said for years we should use you. But when I saw you—” He opened his hands.

  “We acted like kids.” Julian leaned back and examined his pencil. Management. Responsibility. “What are you and Hannah going to do?”

  “We’re moving downstairs, to Munich—” He wouldn’t let Julian interrupt. “No, I’ll be fine. I’ve been scanned and integrated all along. Hannah’s been dying to go home.” He smiled. “I’d invite you to visit, but I expect you’ll be unreachable.”

  “You think we can actually go trans-Alpha?”

  “The SteadiState works. If everyone starts pulling in the same direction, Mission could be on its way within the year.”

  On its way to Alpha Cen. “Well, then, I’d better see Riordan.” Roy remained seated, silent. “What’s wrong?”

  Roy looked up. “I feel as if I got my brother back, and now I’m losing him.” Julian realized he had been feeling the same thing.

  * * *

  By habit, Duwayne followed Julian and Roy outside. As Julian watched his brother go, he realized he was going to have to start a family. Who with? Sophie? Hope? Somebody.

  “Duwayne,” he said. “Get me into Node Canaveral maintenance. Set up my integration.” Duwayne grinned and went to work.

  Julian remained alone, noting the layer of dust on the wall, fighting back a sneeze. An idea occurred to him, and he reached out and scratched a new bit of graffiti in the dust: Alpha Cen = Life.

  He didn’t expect to walk the shores of Eden, but with a little luck he would have grandchildren, and they would.

  THE LAND OF NOD

  Mike Resnick

  Mike Resnick is one of the best-selling authors in science fiction, and one of the most prolific. His many novels include The Dark Lady, Stalking the Unicorn, Paradise, Santiago, Ivory, Soothsayer, Oracle, Lucifer Jones, Purgatory, Inferno, and A Miracle of Rare Design. His award-winning short fiction has been gathered in the collection Will the Last Person to Leave the Planet Please Turn off the Sun? Of late, he has become almost as prolific as an anthologist, producing, as editor, Inside the Funhouse: 17 SF stories about SF, Whatdunits, More Whatdunits, and Shaggy B.E.M. Stories; a long string of anthologies coedited with Martin H. Greenberg, Alternate Presidents, Alternate Kennedys, Alternate Warriors, Aladdin, Dinosaur Fantastic, By Any Other Fame, Alternate Outlaws, and Sherlock Holmes in Orbit, among others; as well as two anthologies coedited with Gardner Dozois, Future Earths: Under African Skies and Future Earths: Under South American Skies. He won the Hugo Award in 1989 for “Kirinyaga.” He won another Hugo Award in 1991 for another story in the Kirinyaga series, “The Manamouki,” and another Hugo and a Nebula last year for his novella “Seven Views of Olduvai Gorge.” His most recent books include the novels The Widowmaker and A Hunger in the Soul. Several of his books are in the process of being turned into big-budget movies. His stories have appeared in our Sixth, Seventh, Ninth, Eleventh, and Twelvth Annual Collections. He lives with his wife, Carol, in Cincinnati, Ohio.

  The Kirinyaga series, taking place on an orbital space colony that had been remade in the image of ancient Kenya as a Utopian experiment, has been one of the most talked-about, acclaimed, and controversial series in the recent history of science fiction. In the poignant story that follows, he brings the series to a shattering conclusion, taking us to a soulless, overcivilized future Kenya to witness a weary, exiled Koriba’s last battle, as he struggles with the death of his dreams, and (perhaps even harder) with the persistence of hope.

  Once, many years ago, there was a Kikuyu warrior who left his village and wandered off in search of adventure. Armed only with a spear, he slew the mighty lion and the cunning leopard. Then one day he came upon an elephant. He realized that his spear was useless against such a beast, but before he could back away or find cover, the elephant charged.

  His only hope was divine intervention, and he begged Ngai, who rules the universe from His throne atop Kirinyaga, the holy mountain that men now call Mount Kenya, to find him and pluck him from the path of the elephant.

  But Ngai did not respond, and the elephant picked the warrior up with its trunk and hurled him high into the air, and he landed in a distant thorn tree. His skin was badly torn by the thorns, but at least he was safe, since he was on a branch some twenty feet above the ground.

  After he was sure the elephant had left the area, the warrior climbed down. Then he returned home and ascended the holy mountain to confront Ngai.

  “What is it that you want of me?” asked Ngai
, when the warrior had reached the summit.

  “I want to know why you did not come,” said the warrior angrily. “All my life I have worshiped you and paid tribute to you. Did you not hear me ask for your help?”

  “I heard you,” answered Ngai.

  “Then why did you not come to my aid?” demanded the warrior. “Are you so lacking in godly powers that you could not find me?”

  “After all these years you still do not understand,” said Ngai sternly. “It is you who must search for me.”

  * * *

  My son Edward picked me up at the police station on Biashara Street just after midnight. The sleek British vehicle hovered a few inches above the ground while I got in, and then his chauffeur began taking us back to his house in the Ngong Hills.

  “This is becoming tedious,” he said, activating the shimmering privacy barrier so that we could not be overheard. He tried to present a judicial calm, but I knew he was furious.

  “You would think they would tire of it,” I agreed.

  “We must have a serious talk,” he said. “You have been back only two months, and this is the fourth time I have had to bail you out of jail.”

  “I have broken no Kikuyu laws,” I said calmly as we raced through the dark, ominous slums of Nairobi on our way to the affluent suburbs.

  “You have broken the laws of Kenya,” he said. “And like it or not, that is where you now live. I’m an official in the government, and I will not have you constantly embarrassing me!” He paused, struggling with his temper. “Look at you! I have offered to buy you a new wardrobe. Why must you wear that ugly old kikoi? It smells even worse than it looks.”

  “Is there now a law against dressing dressing like a Kikuyu?” I asked him.

  “No,” he said, as he commanded the miniature bar to appear from beneath the floor and poured himself a drink. “But there is a law against creating a disturbance in a restaurant.”

  “I paid for my meal,” I noted, as we turned onto Langata Road and headed out for the suburbs. “In the Kenya shillings that you gave me.”

  “That does not give you the right to hurl your food against the wall, simply because it is not cooked to your taste.” He glared at me, barely able to contain his anger. “You’re getting worse with each offense. If I had been anyone else, you’d have spent the night in jail. As it is, I had to agree to pay for the damage you caused.”

  “It was eland,” I explained. “The Kikuyu do not eat game animals.”

  “It was not eland,” he said, setting his glass down and lighting a smokeless cigarette. “The last eland died in a German zoo a year after you left for Kirinyaga. It was a modified soybean product, genetically enhanced to taste like eland.” He paused, then sighed deeply. “If you thought it was eland, why did you order it?”

  “The server said it was steak. I assumed he meant the meat of a cow or an ox.”

  “This has got to stop,” said Edward. “We are two grown men. Why can’t we reach an accommodation?” He stared at me for a long time. “I can deal with rational men who disagree with me. I do it at Government House every day. But I cannot deal with a fanatic.”

  “I am a rational man,” I said.

  “Are you?” he demanded. “Yesterday you showed my wife’s nephew how to apply the githani test for truthfulness, and he practically burned his brother’s tongue off.”

  “His brother was lying,” I said calmly. “He who lies faces the red-hot blade with a dry mouth, whereas he who has nothing to fear has enough moisture on his tongue so that he cannot be burned.”

  “Try telling a seven-year-old boy that he has nothing to fear when he’s being approached by a sadistic older brother who is brandishing a red-hot knife!” snapped my son.

  A uniformed watchman waved us though to the private road where my son lived, and when we reached our driveway the chauffeur pulled our British vehicle up to the edge of the force field. It identified us and vanished long enough for us to pass through, and soon we came to the front door.

  Edward got out of the vehicle and approached his residence as I followed him. He clenched his fists in a physical effort to restrain his anger. “I agreed to let you live with us, because you are an old man who was thrown off his world—”

  “I left Kirinyaga of my own volition,” I interrupted calmly.

  “It makes no difference why or how you left,” said my son. “What matters is that you are here now. You are a very old man. It has been many years since you have lived on Earth. All of your friends are dead. My mother is dead. I am your son, and I will accept my responsibilities, but you must meet me halfway.”

  “I am trying to,” I said.

  “I doubt it.”

  “I am,” I repeated. “Your own son understands that, even if you do not.”

  “My own son has had quite enough to cope with my divorce and remarriage. The last thing he needs is a grandfather filling his head with wild tales of some Kikuyu Utopia.”

  “It is a failed Utopia,” I corrected him. “They would not listen to me, and so they are doomed to become another Kenya.”

  “What is so wrong with that?” said Edward. “Kenya is my home, and I am proud of it.” He paused and stared at me. “And now it is your home again. You must speak of it with more respect.”

  “I lived in Kenya for many years before I emigrated to Kirinyaga,” I said. “I can live here again. Nothing has changed.”

  “That is not so,” said my son. “We have built a transport system beneath Nairobi, and there is now a spaceport at Watamu on the coast.

  We have closed down the nuclear plants; our power is now entirely thermal, drawn from beneath the floor of the Rift Valley. In fact,” he added with the pride that always accompanied the descriptions of his new wife’s attainments, “Susan was instrumental in the changeover.”

  “You misunderstood me, Edward,” I replied. “Kenya remains unchanged in that it continues to ape the Europeans rather than remain true to its own traditions.”

  The security system identified us and opened his house to us. We walked through the foyer, past the broad winding staircase that led to the bedroom wing. The servants were waiting for us, and the butler took Edward’s coat from him. Then we passed the doorways to the lounge and drawing room, both of which were filled with Roman statues and French paintings and rows of beautifully bound British books. Finally we came to Edward’s study, where he turned and spoke in a low tone to the butler.

  “We wish to be alone.”

  The servants vanished as if they had been nothing but holograms.

  “Where is Susan?” I asked, for my daughter-in-law was nowhere to be seen.

  “We were at a party at the Cameroon ambassador’s new home when the call came through that you had been arrested again,” he answered. “You broke up a very enjoyable bridge game. My guess is that she’s in the tub or in bed, cursing your name.”

  I was about to mention that cursing my name to the god of the Europeans would not prove effective, but I decided that my son would not like to hear that at this moment, so I was silent. As I looked at my surroundings, I reflected that not only had all of Edward’s belongings come from the Europeans, but that even his house had been taken from them, for it consisted of many rectangular rooms, and all Kikuyu knew—or should have known—that demons dwell in corners and the only proper shape for a home is round.

  Edward walked briskly to his desk, activated his computer, and read his messages, and then turned to me.

  “There is another message from the government,” he announced. “They want to see you next Tuesday at noon.”

  “I have already told them I will not accept their money,” I said. “I have performed no service for them.”

  He put on his lecture face. “We are no longer a poor country,” he said. “We pride ourselves that none of our infirm or elderly goes hungry.”

  “I will not go hungry if the restaurants will stop trying to feed me unclean animals.”

  “The government is just making sur
e that you do not become a financial burden to me,” said Edward, refusing to let me change the subject.

  “You are my son,” I said. “I raised you and fed you and protected you when you were young. Now I am old and you will do the same for me. That is our tradition.”

  “Well, it is our government’s tradition to provide a financial safety net to families who are supporting elderly members,” he said, and I could tell that the last trace of Kikuyu within him had vanished, that he was entirely a Kenyan.

  “You are a wealthy man,” I pointed out. “You do not need their money.”

  “I pay my taxes,” he said, lighting another smokeless cigarette to hide his defensiveness. “It would be foolish not to accept the benefits that accrue to us. You may live a very long time. We have every right to that money.”

  “It is dishonorable to accept what you do not need,” I replied. “Tell them to leave us alone.”

  He leaned back, half sitting on his desk. “They wouldn’t, even if I asked them to.”

  “They must be Wakamba or Maasai,” I said, making no effort to hide my contempt.

  “They are Kenyans,” he answered. “Just as you and I are.”

  “Yes,” I said, suddenly feeling the weight of my years. “Yes, I must work very hard at remembering that.”

  “You will save me more trips to the police station if you can,” said my son.

  I nodded and went off to my room. He had supplied me with a bed and mattress, but after so many years of living in my hut on Kirinyaga, I found the bed uncomfortable, so every night I removed the blanket and placed it on the floor, then lay down and slept on it.

  But tonight sleep would not come, for I kept reliving the past two months in my mind. Everything I saw, everything I heard, made me remember why I had left Kenya in the first place, why I had fought so long and so hard to obtain Kirinyaga’s charter.

  I rolled onto my side, propped my head on my hand, and looked out the window. Hundreds of stars were twinkling brightly in the clear, cloudless sky. I tried to imagine which of them was Kirinyaga. I had been the mundumugu—the witch doctor—who was charged with establishing our Kikuyu Utopia.