The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Fourteenth Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  I looked at her with total admiration and five sorts of misgiving. “I think what you have done is wonderful. I think you are wonderful. But there’s no way you can hide this. If I’m here a day or two ahead of everyone else, it’s only because I know you better than they do.”

  “No. It’s because you’re smart, and compartmenting of ideas drives you crazy, and you refuse to do it. It would take the others weeks, Jerry. But I had no intention of hiding this—otherwise I would never have stayed in the Washington area. Tomorrow I’ll go in to work as usual, and I can’t wait to see their faces.”

  “But after what you’ve done—” I paused. What had she done? Failed to sign out of a building when she left. Disappeared for a week without notifying her superiors. Removed government property from secure premises without approval. But she could say, what better practical test could there be for her invention, than to become invisible to her own organization?

  Her bosses might make Lois endure a formal hearing on her actions, and they would certainly put a nasty note in her file. That would be it. She was far too valuable for them to do much more. Lois would be all right.

  “What now?” I said. “You can’t go back to your own apartment without being seen, even if you put the suit back on. It’s dark, and the doors will be closed.”

  “So?”

  “Come home with me, Lois. You’ll be safe there.”

  That produced the longest pause since she had stepped invisible into my car. Finally she shook her head.

  “I’d really like to, but not tonight. I’ll take a rain check. I promise.”

  “So where do we go?”

  “You go home. Me, you drop off at the next corner.”

  I was tempted to say that I couldn’t do it, that she didn’t have her suit on. But living in a city with over half a million people confers its own form of invisibility. Provided that Lois stayed away from her apartment, the chance that she would be seen tonight by anyone who knew her was close to zero. And she still had the suit if she felt like using it.

  I halted the car at the next corner and she stepped out, still holding the drab bundle. She gave me a little smile and a wave, and gestured at me to drive on.

  Next morning I was in my sub-basement department exactly on time. I called Lois’s office. She was not there. I kept calling every few minutes.

  She was still not there at midday, or later in the afternoon, or ever again.

  * * *

  This time there were no telltale ATM withdrawals, no hints that she might still be in the local area. Some time during the night she had been back to Reston, entered the building with its round-the-clock surveillance, and removed her notebooks. In their place sat a single sheet of white cardboard. It bore the words, in Lois’s handwriting, “I know why the caged bird sings.”

  That sheet was discussed in a hundred meetings over the next few weeks. It was subjected to all kinds of chemical and physical analysis, which proved conclusively that it was simple cardboard. No one seemed to know what it meant.

  I know, of course. It is a message from Lois to me, and the words mean, It can be done. There is a way out, even from the deepest dungeon or highest tower.

  I told everything I knew about the invisibility suit. Other staff scientists rushed off excitedly to try to duplicate it. I came back to the Department of Ultimate Storage, to the old routine.

  But there is a difference—two differences. First, I am working harder than ever in my life, and now it is toward a definite goal. Not only is there a way out, but Lois assures me that I can find it; otherwise, she would never have promised a rain check.

  The second difference is in Walker Bryant. He leaves me almost totally free of duties, but he comes frequently down from his office to mine. He says little, but he sits and stares at me as I work. In his eyes I sometimes detect a strange, wistful gleam that I never noticed before. I think he knows that there was more to my meeting with Lois than I have admitted, and I think he even suspects what it may have been.

  I will leave him a message when I go. I don’t know what it will say yet, but it must be something that he can understand and eventually act upon. Even Air Force colonels deserve hope.

  CHRYSALIS

  Robert Reed

  Pleasingly prolific, Robert Reed produced at least four or five stories this year that were strong enough to have been shoo-ins for inclusion in a best-of-the-year anthology any other year, something that was true of 1995 as well—a remarkable accomplishment for any author. Reed is a frequent contributor to The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction and Asimov’s Science Fiction, and has also sold stories to Universe, New Destinies, Tomorrow, Synergy, Starlight, and elsewhere. His books include the novels The Leeshore, The Hormone Jungle, Black Milk, The Remarkables, Down the Bright Way, and Beyond the Veil of Stars. His most recent book is the novel An Exaltation of Larks. Upcoming is Beneath the Gated Sky, a sequel to Beyond the Veil of Stars. His stories have appeared in our Ninth, Tenth, Eleventh, Twelfth, and Thirteenth Annual Collections. He lives in Lincoln, Nebraska.

  In the complex and powerful novella that follows, he takes us deep into the starless void between galaxies to voyage along with an immense generation-ship that has been in flight from implacable enemies for hundreds of years … and then takes us along on an exciting, dangerous, and mysterious mission with a crew of young cadets in training, a mission that leads to a crisis that will force them to question everything they know, and to make a choice that could destroy them all.…

  ONE

  The starship embraced many names.

  To the Artisans, it was 2018CC—a bloodless designation for a simple world of ice and cold tars that was long ago gutted, then given engines and a glorious purpose, carrying off the grateful survivors of an utterly inglorious war.

  To its organic passengers, human and otherwise, it wore more evocative names: Squeals and squawks and deep-bass drummings, plus names drawn in light, and sweet pheromonal concoctions with no easy translation.

  The fouchians, a species incapable of exaggeration, knew the ship as The-Great-Nest-Within-Another’s-Black-Soil—an honored name implying wealth, security, and a contented slavery.

  The whalelike moojin sang about the Grand Baleen.

  Home was the literal meaning of many, many names.

  As were Womb and Egg and Salvation.

  Two dissimilar lactators, in utterly different languages, called it Mother’s Nipple, while a certain birdlike creature, in a related vein, screeched lovingly, “Our Mother’s Green Vomit.”

  Humans were comfortable with many names, which was only reasonable. They had built the ship and its Artisans, and no other species was half as abundant. In casual conversation they called the starship the Web, or the Net, or Hope, or the Ark, or Skyborn, or Wanderer. In the ancient ceremonies, when reverence was especially in demand, it was Paradise or Eden, or most often, with enduring emotion: Heaven.

  A name of chilling dimensions.

  If you are admitted to Heaven, then it stands to reason that every other place in Creation is somehow flawed. Tainted. Impure.

  And if you deserve perfection, shouldn’t you be perfect yourself? Not just occasionally, not just where it matters most, but always, in every ordinary day, from your first sip of milk or green vomit to your very last happy perfect breath?

  * * *

  By any measure, the Web was a vast ship. Even small habitats were huge, particularly when you are a young girl, wonderstruck at every turn.

  Sarrie was born in one of the oldest human habitats, in a village of farmers, hunters, and shop clerks. From her playroom she could see the length of the habitat—a diamond-hulled cylinder spinning for mock-gravity, not especially large but substantial enough to hold a few rugged mountains and a stormy little sea. It was a perfect home for a fledgling genius. Sarrie’s foster parents were gently brilliant and happily joined—shopkeepers who weren’t too smart or happy to ignore their carefully tailored daughter. From the instant of conception, the girl’s deve
lopment was monitored and adjusted, reappraised and readjusted, her proven genetics enriched by the peaceful village, an alignment of gloved forces steadily nudging her toward the ultimate goal: Voice.

  Sarrie spoke long before she could walk. Before her second birthday, she could hold her own in idle adult conversation. Barely four years old, she wrote an awful little novel, but sprinkled through its pages were complex and lovely sentences that lingered in the reader’s astonished mind. Later, she invented her own language to write a second novel, then taught the language to her best friend—an older and taller and effortlessly beautiful girl named Lilké. To her credit, Lilké read every make-believe word. “It’s wonderful,” she claimed. But a Voice knows when someone is lying, and why, and Sarrie forgave her best friend, the lie meant to spare her pain.

  The Artisans ruled the Web with the lightest of touches. They normally didn’t visit the habitats, seeing no need to intrude on the organics. But one particular Artisan made a habit of coming to see Sarrie. His name was Ejy, and he would wear a human-style body out of politeness, resembling any wise old man but smelling like new rubber, his hairless brown face wearing a perpetual smile, oversized black eyes bright in any light and blinking now and again to serve the illusion of humanness.

  It was obvious that he had a special interest in the child, and Sarrie’s parents were proud in appropriate ways, encouraging her to behave when he was there—as if she ever misbehaved—and to be a good audience, asking smart questions and giving prompt, perfect answers when she knew them. But only if she knew them, of course.

  When Sarrie was eight years old, Ejy brought her a thick volume filled with butterflies.

  “Select one,” he instructed, his voice smooth and dry, and timeless. “Any species you wish, child. Go on now.”

  “But why?” she had to ask.

  “I will build it for you,” he replied. “Are you intrigued?”

  Sarrie couldn’t count the butterflies or find any end to the book. Reaching its final page, she flipped to the front again and discovered still more butterflies, every stage of their lives shown in three dimensions, usually in their natural size. Captions were available in every shipboard language; the young Voice understood most of the audio captions. Some of the butterflies had lived on the lost earth, but most were alien, possessing the wrong number of legs or odd eyes, giant differences undoubtedly buried in their genetics. Lilké was going to become a geneticist; Sarrie tried to think of questions worth asking her friend. That’s why she paused for a moment, and Ejy interrupted, asking, “Which one will it be?”

  She blinked, a little startled, then turned the soft plastic page and pointed to the first place where her eyes found purchase.

  The butterfly wasn’t large, and while lovely, she didn’t find it exceptional. And the Artisan seemed equally surprised by her choice. Crystal eyes grew larger and more round, thin lips diminishing the smile. Yet he declared, “It’s a fine selection.” With warm, rubber-scented hands, he retrieved the book, then turned and prepared to leave.

  Sarrie waited as long as possible, which was maybe five seconds. Then she blurted out, “When do I get to see the butterfly?”

  Ejy was a tease. Glancing over a shoulder, he smiled and made laughing sounds, the dry voice warning her, “To be done well, even butterflies need a little time. Haven’t you learned that yet, child?”

  * * *

  “A little time” to the Artisans can mean days, or it can mean eons. But a young girl training as a Voice is too busy and happy to dwell on promised gifts.

  Three weeks passed in a pleasant blur. Language lessons were peppered with general studies in science and the Web’s glorious history. A Voice was a specialist in twenty areas, at least. That was why they were rare and why their training was so rigorous. Someday, in thirty or forty years, Sarrie would accompany a team of explorers to one of the nearby suns. If the team found sentient life, it would be her duty and honor to make contact with it, deciphering the alien minds. And if they were worthy, she would try to lure them into joining her, giving their devotion to the Web.

  Sarrie loved her studies, and after three weeks, when her tutor quit lecturing in midsentence, she was disappointed. Perhaps even angry. The tutor told her to go to an isolated valley, and go alone. “No,” it warned her, “Lilké is not invited.” Of course the girl obeyed, running herself breathless and still gasping when she found Ejy waiting for her. He was in an open glade, wearing green-and-black robes over his human body, and wearing the enduring smile. The trees surrounding them were covered with gemstones, bright and sparkling in the mock-sunshine. The stones were cocoons almost ready to hatch. Ejy never mentioned them. He filled the next hour with questions, testing the Voice. Meanwhile, the day warmed and the cocoons grew dull, then split open within moments of each other. The butterflies were identical, each one a little bigger than Sarrie’s hand, emerald wings decorated with white eye patches and margins black as comet tar. A colored, hallucinogenic snow seemed to fill the woods, wingbeats making a thin dry sound, thunderous in the gentlest fashion.

  The tailored creatures lived vigorously and fully until their fat stocks were spent. The busiest few were first to drop, but all fell within the next few minutes; and Sarrie watched the spectacle, composing poems in her head but saying nothing until it was done.

  Ejy seemed as happy as any Artisan could be.

  Afterward, he told her that her chosen species came from a world of insects, and that this particular species had not flown in half a million years.

  Sarrie was impressed, and she said so.

  “Why am I fond of you, child?”

  Startled, she remained sensibly mute. “Voice” was an inadequate name. The best Voices were exceptional listeners, and even when they guessed an answer, some questions were left untouched.

  “Tell me, child. If you meet strangers, what will you do?”

  “‘Embrace their souls,’” she quoted. “‘Show them the Web’s caring face.’”

  “How many Voices are being trained today?”

  Several hundred, she had heard. At least one Voice would represent each of the ship’s organic species—

  “Yet you are possibly our finest Voice.”

  It was an incredible thing to hear. Sarrie was eight years old, her talents barely half-formed, and how could anyone, even an Artisan, know who was best?

  “I love humans,” Ejy confessed. “More than any other organic, I do.”

  In a whisper, she asked, “Why?”

  He touched the thin false hair on his head. “Human genius designed me. It built me. It gave me a noble mission. And when I wear this body, I do it to honor you and your species.”

  Sarrie nodded, absorbing every sound, every tiny cue.

  “I have lived on 2018CC since its inception. Which makes me how old?”

  Several million years, she knew.

  “If I could become organic, I should like to be human.” It was another astonishing statement, yet he didn’t linger on it. “Suppose you could become a different species, child. Not in the abstract, as Voices try to do. But in reality, as flesh and fluid … which species would you become…?”

  She reached down, gently grasping one of the dying butterflies. It was dusty and strangely warm, weighing almost nothing, its mouthparts adapted to suck nectar from a very specific, very extinct flower. There was a soft chirp, then it sprayed her with a mist of fragrant oils; and for lack of better, she told Ejy, “This.”

  Doubt shone on the Artisan’s face. “And why, child?”

  “It’s very beautiful—”

  “You are lying. To me, you are lying.” His voice didn’t sound angry, but a fire shone behind his eyes. “I know you, Sarrie. You don’t know yourself half as well as I do, and you just lied.”

  Sarrie shook her head, claiming, “I did not—”

  “First of all, these aren’t your favorite colors.” He pulled the carcass from her hand. “And more important, where’s the value in becoming something that’s love
ly? This species has slept in our library for five hundred millennia, dead and forgotten, and if you hadn’t chosen it, it would have remained dead until the end of time.”

  He dropped the butterfly, both of them watching it flip and spin downward like a paper glider.

  “You are exactly who you should be, Sarrie.” Wise, ageless eyes smiled, and the pink tongue peeked out from between thin lips. “The universe is full of beautiful, perishable things. Butterflies, for instance. They can take infinite forms, and they are cheap. But a rare skill—the genius of a Voice, for example—is something that will be born and born again, without end.”

  “I didn’t mean to lie,” she whispered, in self-defense.

  “Oh, yes, you did.” Ejy laughed, then assured her, “And I know what you were thinking. I know what you would ask to become.”

  She said nothing.

  “To be an Artisan, of course.”

  “No!” she roared.

  “Oh, yes,” he replied. “You envy our immortality. You lie awake at night, wishing you could know everything.” A pause. “Given your chance, child, you would happily rule this noble ship of ours. Any human would. It is your simple nature.”