The Mammoth Book of the Best of Best New SF

by Gardner Dozois

  He knew then. He knew what he was.

  The woman looked at him and said sharply, “What are you doing, Ben?”

  And for that moment, he was called back, and he made a fist around the thread and plunged it into the black stuff. The spy screamed and reached behind his helmet and dumped all oxygen from his main pack. It hissed for a long time, but the stuff gripping his legs and waist held firm.

  “It isn’t an anaerobe,” Avernus said. She hadn’t moved. “It is a vacuum organism. A little oxygen won’t hurt it.”

  Ben Lo found that he could speak. He said, “He wanted to cut off your head.”

  “I wondered why you were carrying that flask of liquid nitrogen. You were going to take my head back with you – and what? Use a bush robot to strip my brain neuron by neuron and read my memories into a computer? How convenient to have a genius captive in a bottle!”

  “It’s me, Barbara. I couldn’t let him do that to you.” His left arm was buried up to the elbow.

  “Then thank you, Ben. I’m in your debt.”

  “I’d ask you to take me with you, but I think there’s only one hibernation pod in the transport. You won’t be able to take your friend, either.”

  “Well, Ludmilla has her family here. She doesn’t want to leave. Or not yet.”

  “I can’t remember that story about Picasso. Maybe you heard it after we – after the divorce.”

  “You told it to me, Ben. When things were good between us, you used to tell stories like that.”

  “Then I’ve forgotten.”

  “It’s about an art dealer who buys a canvas in a private deal, that is signed ‘Picasso.’ This is in France, when Picasso was working in Cannes, and the dealer travels there to find if it is genuine. Picasso is working in his studio. He spares the painting a brief glance and dismisses it as a fake.”

  “I had a Picasso, once. A bull’s head. I remember that, Barbara.”

  “You thought it was a necessary sign of your wealth. You were photographed beside it several times. I always preferred Georges Braque myself. Do you want to hear the rest of the story?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “Of course you are, as long as I stay out of reach. Well, a few months later, the dealer buys another canvas signed by Picasso. Again he travels to the studio; again Picasso spares it no more than a glance, and announces that it is a fake. The dealer protests that this is the very painting he found Picasso working on the first time he visited, but Picasso just shrugs and says, ‘I often paint fakes.’”

  His breathing was becoming labored. Was there something wrong with the air system? The black stuff was climbing his chest. He could almost see it move, a creeping wave of black devouring him centimeter by centimeter.

  The star was very close to the horizon, now.

  He said, “I know a story.”

  “There’s no more time for stories, dear. I can release you, if you want. You only have your reserve air in any case.”

  “No. I want to see you go.”

  “I’ll remember you. I’ll tell your story far and wide.”

  Ben Lo heard the echo of another voice across their link, and the woman in the transparent pressure suit stood and lifted a hand in salute and bounded away.

  The spy came back, then, but Ben Lo fought him down. There was nothing he could do, after all. The woman was gone. He said, as if to himself, “I know a story. About a man who lost himself, and found himself again, just in time. Listen. Once upon a time . . .”

  Something bright rose above the horizon and dwindled away into the outer darkness.

  STORY OF YOUR LIFE

  Ted Chiang

  Ted Chiang has made a big impact on the field with only a handful of stories, five stories all told, published in places such as Omni, Asimov’s Science Fiction, Full Spectrum 3, Starlight 2, and Vanishing Acts. He won the 1990 Nebula Award with his first published story “Tower of Babylon,” and won the 1991 Asimov’s Reader’s Award with his third, “Understand,” as well as winning the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer in that same year. After 1991, he fell silent for several years before making a triumphant return in 1998 with the novella that follows, “Story of Your Life,” which won him another Nebula Award in 1999. Since then, he returned in 2000 with another major story, “Seventy-two Letters,” which was a finalist for the Hugo and for the World Fantasy Award, and “Hell Is the Absence of God” in 2001, which won him another Hugo and Nebula Award, and in 2002 with “Liking What You See: A Documentary.” The same year, his first short-story collection, Stories of Your Life and Others, was published, and won the Locus Award as the year’s Best Collection. It will be interesting to see how he develops in the decade to come, as he could well turn out to be one of the significant new talents of the new century. He lives in Kirkland, Washington.

  Here he gives us an intricate, subtle, and intelligent look at the proposition that knowing how a story ends before you start it sometimes doesn’t matter as much as what you learn along the way. . . .

  YOUR FATHER IS ABOUT to ask me the question. This is the most important moment in our lives, and I want to pay attention, note every detail. Your dad and I have just come back from an evening out, dinner and a show; it’s after midnight. We came out onto the patio to look at the full moon; then I told your dad I wanted to dance, so he humors me and now we’re slow-dancing, a pair of thirtysomething swaying back and forth in the moonlight like kids. I don’t feel the night chill at all. And then your dad says, “Do you want to make a baby?”

  Right now your dad and I have been married for about two years, living on Ellis Avenue; when we move out you’ll still be too young to remember the house, but we’ll show you pictures of it, tell you stories about it. I’d love to tell you the story of this evening, the night you’re conceived, but the right time to do that would be when you’re ready to have children of your own, and we’ll never get that chance.

  Telling it to you any earlier wouldn’t do any good; for most of your life you won’t sit still to hear such a romantic – you’d say sappy – story. I remember the scenario of your origin you’ll suggest when you’re twelve.”

  “The only reason you had me was so you could get a maid you wouldn’t have to pay,” you’ll say bitterly, dragging the vacuum cleaner out of the closet.

  “That’s right,” I’ll say. “Thirteen years ago I knew the carpets would need vacuuming around now, and having a baby seemed to be the cheapest and easiest way to get the job done. Now kindly get on with it.”

  “If you weren’t my mother, this would be illegal,” you’ll say, seething as you unwind the power cord and plug it into the wall outlet.

  That will be in the house on Belmont Street. I’ll live to see strangers occupy both houses: the one you’re conceived in and the one you grow up in. Your dad and I will sell the first a couple years after your arrival. I’ll sell the second shortly after your departure. By then Nelson and I will have moved into our farmhouse, and your dad will be living with what’s-her-name.

  I know how this story ends; I think about it a lot. I also think a lot about how it began, just a few years ago, when ships appeared in orbit and artifacts appeared in meadows. The government said next to nothing about them, while the tabloids said every possible thing.

  And then I got a phone call, a request for a meeting.

  I spotted them waiting in the hallway, outside my office. They made an odd couple; one wore a military uniform and a crewcut, and carried an aluminum briefcase. He seemed to be assessing his surroundings with a critical eye. The other one was easily identifiable as an academic: full beard and mustache, wearing corduroy. He was browsing through the overlapping sheets stapled to a bulletin board nearby.

  “Colonel Weber, I presume?” I shook hands with the soldier. “Louise Banks.”

  “Dr. Banks. Thank you for taking the time to speak with us,” he said.

  “Not at all; any excuse to avoid the faculty meeting.”

  Colonel Weber indicated his compan
ion. “This is Dr. Gary Donnelly, the physicist I mentioned when we spoke on the phone.”

  “Call me Gary,” he said as we shook hands. “I’m anxious to hear what you have to say.”

  We entered my office. I moved a couple of stacks of books off the second guest chair, and we all sat down. “You said you wanted me to listen to a recording. I presume this has something to do with the aliens ?”

  “All I can offer is the recording,” said Colonel Weber.

  “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  Colonel Weber took a tape machine out of his briefcase and pressed play. The recording sounded vaguely like that of a wet dog shaking the water out of its fur.

  “What do you make of that?” he asked.

  I withheld my comparison to a wet dog. “What was the context in which this recording was made?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “It would help me interpret those sounds. Could you see the alien while it was speaking? Was it doing anything at the time?”

  “The recording is all I can offer.”

  “You won’t be giving anything away if you tell me that you’ve seen the aliens; the public’s assumed you have.”

  Colonel Weber wasn’t budging. “Do you have any opinion about its linguistic properties?” he asked.

  “Well, it’s clear that their vocal tract is substantially different from a human vocal tract. I assume that these aliens don’t look like humans?”

  The colonel was about to say something noncommittal when Gary Donelly asked, “Can you make any guesses based on the tape?”

  “Not really. It doesn’t sound like they’re using a larynx to make those sounds, but that doesn’t tell me what they look like.”

  “Anything – is there anything else you can call tell us?” asked Colonel Weber.

  I could see he wasn’t accustomed to consulting a civilian. “Only that establishing communications is going to be really difficult because of the difference in anatomy. They’re almost certainly using sounds that the human vocal tract can’t reproduce, and maybe sounds that the human ear can’t distinguish.”

  “You mean infra- or ultrasonic frequencies?” asked Gary Donnelly.

  “Not specifically. I just mean that the human auditory system isn’t an absolute acoustic instrument; it’s optimized to recognize the sounds that a human larynx makes. With an alien vocal system, all bets are off.” I shrugged. “Maybe we’ll be able to hear the difference between alien phonemes, given enough practice, but it’s possible our ears simply can’t recognize the distinctions they consider meaningful. In that case we’d need a sound spectrograph to know what an alien is saying.”

  Colonel Weber asked, “Suppose I gave you an hour’s worth of recordings; how long would it take you to determine if we need this sound spectrograph or not?”

  “I couldn’t determine that with just a recording no matter how much time I had. I’d need to talk with the aliens directly.”

  The colonel shook his head. “Not possible.”

  I tried to break it to him gently. “That’s your call, of course. But the only way to learn an unknown language is to interact with a native speaker, and by that I mean asking questions, holding a conversation, that sort of thing. Without that, it’s simply not possible. So if you want to learn the aliens’ language, someone with training in field linguistics – whether it’s me or someone else – will have to talk with an alien. Recordings alone aren’t sufficient.”

  Colonel Weber frowned. “You seem to be implying that no alien could have learned human languages by monitoring our broadcasts.”

  “I doubt it. They’d need instructional material specifically designed to teach human languages to nonhumans. Either that, or interaction with a human. If they had either of those, they could learn a lot from TV, but otherwise, they wouldn’t have a starting point.”

  The colonel clearly found this interesting; evidently his philosophy was, the less the aliens knew, the better. Gary Donnelly read the colonel’s expression too and rolled his eyes. I suppressed a smile.

  Then Colonel Weber asked, “Suppose you were learning a new language by talking to its speakers; could you do it without teaching them English?”

  “That would depend on how cooperative the native speakers were. They’d almost certainly pick up bits and pieces while I’m learning their language, but it wouldn’t have to be much if they’re willing to teach. On the other hand, if they’d rather learn English than teach us their language, that would make things far more difficult.”

  The colonel nodded. “I’ll get back to you on this matter.”

  The request for that meeting was perhaps the second most momentous phone call in my life. The first, of course, will be the one from Mountain Rescue. At that point your dad and I will be speaking to each other maybe once a year, tops. After I get that phone call, though, the first thing I’ll do will be to call your father.

  He and I will drive out together to perform the identification, a long silent car ride. I remember the morgue, all tile and stainless steel, the hum of refrigeration and smell of antiseptic. An orderly will pull the sheet back to reveal your face. Your face will look wrong somehow, but I’ll know it’s you.

  “Yes, that’s her,” I’ll say. “She’s mine.”

  You’ll be twenty-five then.

  The MP checked my badge, made a notation on his clipboard, and opened the gate; I drove the off-road vehicle into the encampment, a small village of tents pitched by the Army in a farmer’s sun-scorched pasture. At the center of the encampment was one of the alien devices, nicknamed “looking glasses.”

  According to the briefings I’d attended, there were nine of these in the United States, one hundred and twelve in the world. The looking glasses acted as two-way communication devices, presumably with the ships in orbit. No one knew why the aliens wouldn’t talk to us in person; fear of cooties, maybe. A team of scientists, including a physicist and a linguist, was assigned to each looking glass; Gary Donnelly and I were on this one.

  Gary was waiting for me in the parking area. We navigated a circular maze of concrete barricades until we reached the large tent that covered the looking glass itself. In front of the tent was an equipment cart loaded with goodies borrowed from the school’s phonology lab; I had sent it ahead for inspection by the Army.

  Also outside the tent were three tripod-mounted video cameras whose lenses peered, through windows in the fabric wall, into the main room. Everything Gary and I did would be reviewed by countless others, including military intelligence. In addition we would each send daily reports, of which mine had to include estimates on how much English I thought the aliens could understand.

  Gary held open the tent flap and gestured for me to enter. “Step right up,” he said, circus-barker-style. “Marvel at creatures the likes of which have never been seen on God’s green earth.”

  “And all for one slim dime,” I murmured, walking through the door. At the moment the looking glass was inactive, resembling a semicircular mirror over ten feet high and twenty feet across. On the brown grass in front of the looking glass, an arc of white spray paint outlined the activation area. Currently the area contained only a table, two folding chairs, and a power strip with a cord leading to a generator outside. The buzz of fluorescent lamps, hung from poles along the edge of the room, commingled with the buzz of flies in the sweltering heat.

  Gary and I looked at each other, and then began pushing the cart of equipment up to the table. As we crossed the paint line, the looking glass appeared to grow transparent; it was as if someone was slowly raising the illumination behind tinted glass. The illusion of depth was uncanny; I felt I could walk right into it. Once the looking glass was fully lit it resembled a life-sized diorama of a semicircular room. The room contained a few large objects that might have been furniture, but no aliens. There was a door in the curved rear wall.

  We busied ourselves connecting everything together: microphone, sound spectrograph, portable computer, and speaker. As we
worked, I frequently glanced at the looking glass, anticipating the aliens’ arrival. Even so I jumped when one of them entered.

  It looked like a barrel suspended at the intersection of seven limbs. It was radially symmetric, and any of its limbs could serve as an arm or a leg. The one in front of me was walking around on four legs, three nonadjacent arms curled up at its sides. Gary called them “heptapods.”

  I’d been shown videotapes, but I still gawked. Its limbs had no distinct joints; anatomists guessed they might be supported by vertebral columns. Whatever their underlying structure, the heptapod’s limbs conspired to move it in a disconcertingly fluid manner. Its “torso” rode atop the rippling limbs as smoothly as a hovercraft.

  Seven lidless eyes ringed the top of the heptapod’s body. It walked back to the doorway from which it entered, made a brief sputtering sound, and returned to the center of the room followed by another heptapod; at no point did it ever turn around. Eerie, but logical; with eyes on all sides, any direction might as well be “forward.”

  Gary had been watching my reaction. “Ready?” he asked.

  I took a deep breath. “Ready enough.” I’d done plenty of fieldwork before, in the Amazon, but it had always been a bilingual procedure: either my informants knew some Portuguese, which I could use, or I’d previously gotten an introduction to their language from the local missionaries. This would be my first attempt at conducting a true monolingual discovery procedure. It was straightforward enough in theory, though.

  I walked up to the looking glass and a heptapod on the other side did the same. The image was so real that my skin crawled. I could see the texture of its gray skin, like corduroy ridges arranged in whorls and loops. There was no smell at all from the looking glass, which somehow made the situation stranger.

  I pointed to myself and said slowly, “Human.” Then I pointed to Gary. “Human.” Then I pointed at each heptapod and said, “What are you?”

  No reaction. I tried again, and then again.