The Year's Best Science Fiction: Fifteenth Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  "No, because I don't want you to do that."

  "But I'm doing it anyway."

  "Good luck to you," she said, without rancor. "It's mostly pure noise, in my opinion."

  At bedtime, Anna listened while Jake read to her the story of the Burmese Temple Cat called Sinh, who was an oracle. He lived with a priest called Munha, and they were both very miserable because Burma was being invaded. When Mun-Ha died, the goddess Tsun-Kyankse transfused Mun-Ha's spirit into Sinh. His eyes turned blue as sapphires, his nose and feet and tail turned dark as the sacred earth, and the rest of him turned gold, except for the tips of his pawswhich were touching Mun-Ha's white hair at the moment the holy priest died. Then Sinh transfused his power into the rest of the priests, and they went and saved Burma.

  "Do you know what an oracle is?"

  "Yeah," he answered drowsily. "It's a little boat."

  Coracle, oracle: a messenger from the gods and a little boat on a great big shoreless sea. Anna watched as the child fell deeper into sleep.

  Spence finished his task and repaired to the bar. He ordered two pression and took them to a table by the doors that he already thought of as his and Anna's table, because that was where they sat when they came in for a drink before setting up. The large, dimly lit room was crowded, but not oppressively stuffed. Foosball in the games room, pizzas and frites and sandwiches readily available; absolutely no pretensions. Yes, he thought. It's our kind of joint. The clatter of conversation, mostly French, soon blended into a soothing, encompassing ocean roar: laughter or the clink of glassware springing up like spray.

  We could live here, he decided. In this twilight. He imagined the blockade stretching into months and years; imagined that the actual no-kidding disintegration had begun-which of course was nonsense. Anna, armed with their home-medicine manual, could become a quack doctor. Maybe Spence could sell information? He dallied with the idea of describing Anna as a wisewonian, but rejected it. Call a spade a spade. This is not the dawning of some magical, nurturing female future. It's the same road we've been traveling for so long, going down into the dark ... Chuck had followed him from the car and was sitting on the chair next to Spence, taking it all in with his usual assured and gentle gaze. The young woman from the bar came by with a tray of glasses. Spence bad a moment's anxiety. Chuck was respectably vaccinated and tattooed now. They'd managed to get this done in the same town where they'd dispatched (this was the compromise they'd reached) an anonymous tip-off, and prints of Anna's photographs, to the police in the regional capital. But maybe he wasn't welcome in the bar.

  But she'd only stopped to admire. "What do you call him?" she asked.

  "Chuck Prophet."

  The girl laughed, effortlessly balancing her tray on one thin muscular arm, and bending to rub the Berman's delectably soft, ruffled throat. "That's an unusual name for a cat."

  "He's an unusual cat," explained Spence proudly.

  She moved on. Chuck had accepted her caress the way he took any kind of attention: sweetly, but a little distracted, a little disappointed at the touch of a hand that was not the hand he waited for. The moment she was gone, he resumed his eager study of the crowd, his silver-blue eyes searching hopefully: ears alert for a voice and a step that he would never hear again. Still keeping the faith, still confident that normal service would be restored.

  Marrow

  Robert Reed

  Robert Reed is a frequent contributor to The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction and Asimov's Science Fiction, and has also sold stories to Science Fiction Age, 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 books are the novels An Exaltation of Larks and a sequel to Beyond the Veil of Stars titled Beneath the Gated Sky, and a new story collection is in the works. His stories have appeared in our Ninth, Tenth, Eleventh, Twelfth, Thirteenth, and Fourteenth Annual Collections. He lives in Lincoln, Nebraska.

  Reed is one of the most prolific of today's short fiction writers, seriously rivaled for the top position only by authors such as Stephen Baxter and Brian Stableford. And-also like Baxter and Stableford-he manages to keep up a very high standard of quality while being prolific, something that is not at all easy to do. Again this year, as has been true for the last several years, Reed produced at least three or four stories that were strong enough to have been sure choices for a best-of-the-year volume in another year, so that it became not a matter of whether or not I was going to use a Reed story, but rather which Reed story I was going to use. An embarrassment of riches!

  In the end, I decided on the intricate and surprising novella that follows, a story mind-bogglingly vast in scope and scale even among examples of wide-screen SF, a story that shows us that right under our feet, unexpected and undiscovered, there might be a whole new world-one that we ought to think twice about visiting ...

  MISSION YEAR 0.00:

  Washen couldn't count all the captains spread out before her, and putting on her finest captainly smile, she joined them, trading the usual compliments, telling little stories about her travels, and with a genuine unease, asking if anyone knew why the Ship's Master would want to bring them here.

  "She's testing us," one gray-eyed colleague ventured. "She's testing our obedience. Plus our security measures, too."

  "Perhaps," Washen allowed.

  Coded orders had found Washen through secure channels. Without explanation, the Master told her to abandon her post, discarding her uniform and taking on a suitable disguise. For the last seven days, she had played the role of dutiful tourist, wandering the vast ship, enjoying its wondrous sights, then after making triple-sure that she wasn't being monitored, boarding an anonymous tube-car that had brought her to this odd place.

  "My name is Diu," said her companion, offering his hand and a wide smile.

  She clasped the hand with both of hers, saying, "We met at the captains' banquet. Was it twenty years ago?"

  "Twenty-five." Like most captains, Diu was tall for a human, with craggy features and an easy charm meant to instill trust in their human passengers. "It's kind of you to remember me. Thank you."

  "You're most welcome."

  The eyes brightened. "What do you think of the Master's tastes? Isn't this a bizarre place to meet?"

  "Bizarre," Washen echoed. "That's a good word."

  The leech once lived here. An obscure species, ascetic by nature, they had built their home inside the remote confines of one of the ship's enormous fuel tanks. Weaving together thick plastics, they had dangled this place from the tank's insulated ceiling. Its interior, following a leech logic, was a single room. Vast in two dimensions but with a glowing gray ceiling close enough to touch, the surroundings made every human feel claustrophobic. The only furnishings were hard gray pillows. The air was warm and stale, smelling of odd dusts and persistent pheromones. Colors were strictly forbidden. Even the gaudy tourists' clothes seemed to turn gray in the relentless light.

  "I've been wondering," said Diu. "Whatever happened to the leech?"

  "I don't know," Washen confessed. She had met the species when they came on board. But that was more than a thousand years before, and even a captain's memory was imperfect.

  The leech could have simply reached their destination, disembarking without incident. Or they could have decided to build an even more isolated home, if that was possible. Or perhaps some disaster had struck, and they were dead. Shipboard extinctions were more common than any captain would admit. Some of their passengers proved too frail to endure any long journey. Mass suicides and private wars claimed others. Yet as Washen often reminded herself, for every failed species, a hundred others thrived, or at least managed to etch out some little corner of this glorious ship where they could hold their own. "Wherever the leech are, I'm sure they're well."

  "Of course they are," Diu replied, knowing what was polite. "Of course."

  In the f
ace of ignorance, captains should make positive sounds.

  Washen noticed how even while standing still, Diu was moving, his flesh practically vibrating, as if the water inside him was ready to boil.

  "So, madam ... I'm dying to know what you think! What's our mission? What's so important that the Master pulls us all the way down here?"

  "Yes," said a second voice. "What's your best bad guess, darling?"

  Miocene had joined them. One of a handful of Submasters in attendance, she was rumored to be the Master's favorite. An imperious, narrow-faced woman, she was a full bead taller than the others, dressed in rich robes, her brindle colored hair brushing against the ceiling. Yet she stood erect, refusing to dip her head for the simple sake of comfort.

  "Not that you know more than any of us," the Submaster persisted. "But what do you think the Master wants?"

  The room seemed to grow quiet. Captains held their breath, secretly delighted that it was Washen who had to endure Miocene's attentions.

  "Well," Washen began, "I can count several hundred clues."

  A razor smile formed. "And they are?"

  "Us." They were standing near one of the room's few windows-a wide slit of thick, distorting plastic. There was nothing outside but blackness and vacuum; an ocean of liquid hydrogen, vast and calm and brutally cold, lay some fifty kilometers below them. Nothing was visible in the window but their own murky reflections. Washen saw everyone at a glance. She regarded her own handsome, ageless face, black hair pulled back in a sensible bun and streaked with enough white to lend authority, her wide chocolate eyes betraying confidence with a twist of deserved pleasure.

  "The Master selected us, and we're the clues."

  Miocene glanced at her own reflection. "And who are we?"

  "The elite of the elite." Washen put names to the faces, listing bonuses and promotions earned over the last millennia. "Manka is a new second-grade. Aasleen was in charge of the last engine upgrade, which came in below budget and five months early. Saluki and Westfall have won the Master's award for duty ten times each." She gestured at the captain beside her, saying, "And there's Diu, of course. Already an eleventh-grade, which is astonishing. You came on board the ship-warn me if I'm wrong-as just another passenger." The energetic man said, "True, madam. Thank you for remembering."

  Washen grinned, then said, "And then there's you, Madam Miocene. You are one of three Submasters with first-chair status at the Master's table."

  The tall woman nodded, enjoying the flattery. "But don't forget yourself, darling."

  "I never do," Washen replied, earning a good laugh from everyone. And because nothing was more unseemly in a captain than false modesty, she admitted, "I've heard the rumors. I'm slated to become our newest Submaster."

  Miocene grinned, but she made no comment about any rumors.

  Instead she took an enormous breath, and in a loud voice asked, "Can you smell yourselves? Can you? That's the smell of ambition. No other scent is so tenacious, or in my mind, ever so sweet ... No name but the ship was necessary. Ancient and spectacular, there was nothing else that could be confused with it, and everyone on board, from the Ship's Master to the most disreputable stowaway, was justifiably proud of their magnificent home.

  The ship began as a Jupiter-class world, but an unknown species had claimed it. Using its hydrogen atmosphere, they accelerated the core to a fraction of lightspeed. Then they built tunnels and compartments, plus chambers large enough to swallow small worlds. Premium hyperfibers lent strength and durability to the frame. And then, as with the leech's plastic abode, the builders suddenly and mysteriously abandoned their creation.

  Billions of years later, humans stumbled across the ship. Most of its systems were in a diagnostic mode. Human engineers woke them, making repairs where necessary. Then the best human captains were hired, and every manner of passenger was ushered aboard, the ship's maiden voyage calling for a half-million year jaunt around the Milky Way.

  Its undisputed ruler arrived a few hours later.

  Accompanied by a melody of horns and angel-voiced humans, the Master strode into the room. Where other captains were disguised in civilian clothes, their leader wore a mirrored cap and uniform that suited her office, and for many reasons, her chosen body was broad and extraordinarily deep. It was status, in part. But a Master also needed bulk to give her augmented brain a suitable home, thousands of ship functions constantly monitored and adjusted, in the same unconscious way that the woman moved and breathed.

  Gravity was weaker this deep inside the ship. With one vast hand skating along the ceiling, the Master deftly kept herself from bumping her head. A dozen of the low-grade captains offered greetings and hard cushions. Diu was among the supplicants, on his knees and smiling, even after she had passed.

  "Thank you for coming," said that voice that always took Washen by surprise. It was a quiet, unhurried voice, perpetually amused by whatever the radiant brown eyes were seeing. "I know you're puzzled," she said, "and I hope you're concerned. So let me begin with my compelling reasons for this game, and what I intend for you."

  A handful of guards stood in the distance; Washen saw their tiny armored silhouettes as the room's lights fell to nothing.

  "The ship, please."

  A real-time projection blossomed beside the Master, channeled through her own internal systems. The spherical hull looked slick and gray. A thousand lasers were firing from the bow, aiming at comets and other hazards. Mammoth engines rooted in the stern spat out hurricanes of plasma, incrementally adjusting their course and speed. And a tiny flare on the equator meant that another starship was arriving. With new passengers, presumably.

  "Now," said the amused voice, "start peeling the onion. Please."

  In a blink, the hyperfiber hull was removed. Washen could suddenly make out the largest high-deck chambers; she knew each by name and purpose, just as she knew every important place too small to be seen. Then another few hundred kilometers of rock and water, air and hyperfiber were erased, exposing more landmarks.

  "This perfect architecture." The Master stepped closer to the shrinking projection, its glow illuminating a wide strong self-assured face-a face designed to inspire thousands of captains, and a crew numbering in the tens of millions. "In my mind, there's been no greater epic in history. I'm not talking about this journey of ours. I mean about the astonishing task of exploring our ancient starship. Imagine the honor: To be the first living organism to step into one of these chambers, the first sentient mind in billions of years to experience their vastness, their mystery. It was a magnificent time. And I'm talking first-hand, since I was one of the leaders of the first survey team ..

  It was an old, honorable boast, and her prerogative.

  "We did a superlative job," she assured. "I won't accept any other verdict. Despite technical problems and the sheer enormity of it, we mapped more than ninety-nine percent of the ship's interior. In fact, I was the first one to find my way through the plumbing above us, and the first to see the sublime beauty of the hydrogen sea below us .. ."

  Washen hid a smile, thinking: A fuel tank is a fuel tank is a fuel tank.

  "Here we are," the Master announced. The projection had shrunk by a third. The fuel tank was a fist-sized cavern; the leech habitat was far too small to be seen. Then in the next moment, they were gone, another layer removed without sound or fuss. Liquid hydrogen turned into a blackish solid, and deeper still, a transparent metal. "These seas have always been the deepest features," she commented. "Below them, there's nothing but iron and a stew of other metals squashed under fantastic pressures."

  The ship had been reduced to a perfectly smooth black ball-the essential ingredient in a multitude of popular games.

  "Until now, we knew nothing about the core." The Master paused for a moment, allowing herself a quick grin. "Evidence shows that when the ship was built, its core was stripped of its radionuclides, probably to help cool the metals and keep them relatively stiff. We don't know how the builders managed the trick.
But there used to be narrow tunnels leading down, all reinforced with hyperfibers and energy buttresses, and all eventually crushed by time and a lack of repair." A second pause, then she said, "Not enough room left for a single microchine to pass. Or so we've always believed."

  Washen felt herself breathing faster, enjoying the moment.

  "There has never, ever been the feeblest hint of hidden chambers," the Master proclaimed. "I won't accept criticism on this matter. Every possible test was carried out. Seismic. Neutrino imaging. Even palm-of-the-hand calculations of mass and volume. Until fifty-three years ago, there was no reason to fear that our maps weren't complete."

  A silence had engulfed the audience. Quietly, smoothly, the Master said, "The full ship. Please."

  The iron ball was again dressed in rock and hyperfiber. "Now the impact. Please."

  Washen stepped forward, anticipating what she would see. Fifty-three years ago, they passed through a dense swarm of comets. The captains had to throw gobs of antimatter into the largest hazards. Lasers fired without pause, evaporating trillions of tons of ice. But debris still peppered the hull, a thousand pinpricks of light dancing on its silver-gray projection, and then came a blistering white flash that dwarfed the other explosions and left the captains blinking, remembering that moment, and the shared embarrassment.

  A chunk of nickel-iron had slipped through their defenses. The ship rattled with the impact, and for months afterwards, nervous passengers talked about little else. Even when the captains showed them all of the schematics and calculations, proving that they could have absorbed an even larger impact before anyone was in real danger ... even then there people and aliens who insisted on being afraid.

  With a palpable relish, the Master said, "Now the cross section, please."

  Half of the ship evaporated. Pressure waves spread down and out from the blast site, then pulled together again at the stern, causing more damage before they bounced, and bounced back again, the diluted vibrations still detectable now, murmuring their way through the ship as well as through the captains'own bones. "Al analysis. Please."