The Year's Best Science Fiction: Fifteenth Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  With a little nod, Diu agreed.

  Miocene and a dozen captains ran into the jungle. Left behind, Washen forced herself to concentrate, packing her household's essentials and helping the other worried parents. When they were finished, hours had passed. The quakes had shattered the crust beneath them, and the golden balloons had vanished, replaced with clouds of iron dust and the stink of burning jungle. The captains and remaining children stood in the main round, ready to flee. But the ranking Submaster wouldn't give the order. "Another minute," he kept telling everyone, including himself. Then he would carefully hide his timepiece in his uniform's pocket, fighting the urge to watch the turning of its hands.

  When Till suddenly stepped into the open, grinning at them, Washen felt a giddy, incoherent relief.

  Relief collapsed into shock, then terror.

  The young man's chest cavity had been opened up with a knife, the first wound partially healed but the second wound deeper, lying perpendicular to the first. Ripped, desiccated flesh tried desperately to knit itself back together. Till wasn't in mortal danger, but he wore his agony well. With an artful moan, he stumbled, then righted himself for a slippery instant. Then he fell sideways, slamming against the bare iron in the same instant that Miocene slowly, slowly stepped into view.

  She was unhurt, and she was thoroughly, hopelessly trapped.

  Spellbound, Washen watched the Submaster kneel beside her boy, gripping his straight brown hair with one hand while she stared into his eyes.

  What did Till say to her in the jungle? How did he steer his mother into this murderous rage? Because that's what he must have done. As events played out, Washen realized that everything was part of an elaborate plan. That's why Locke took them to the meeting, and why he had felt guilty. When he said, "I know. I promised," he meant the promise he made to Till.

  Miocene kept staring into her son's eyes.

  Perhaps she was hunting for forgiveness, or better, for some hint of doubt. Or perhaps she was simply giving him a moment to contemplate her own gaze, relentless and cold. Then with both hands, she picked up a good-sized wedge of nickel-iron-the quakes had left the round littered with them-and with a calm fury, she rolled him over and shattered the vertebrae in his neck, then continued beating him, blood and shredded flesh flying, his head nearly cut free of his paralyzed body.

  Washen and five other captains pulled Miocene off her son.

  "Let go of me," she demanded. Then she dropped her weapon and raised her arms, telling everyone in earshot, "If you want to help him, help him. But if you do, you don't belong to our community. That's my decree. According to the powers of my rank, my office, and my mood ...”

  Locke had stepped out of the jungle.

  He was the first to come to Till's side, but only barely. More than two-thirds of the children gathered around the limp figure. A stretcher was found, and their leader was made comfortable. Then with a few possessions and virtually no food, the wayward children began to file away, moving north when the captains were planning to travel south. Diu stood beside Washen; since when?

  "We can't just let them get away," he whispered. "Someone needs to stay with them. To talk to them, and help them ..."

  She glanced at her lover, then opened her mouth. "I'll go," she meant to say.

  But Diu said, "You shouldn't, no. You'll help them more by staying close to Miocene." He bad obviously thought it through, arguing, "You have rank. You have authority here. And besides, Miocene listens to you. When it suited her, yes. "I'll keep in contact," Diu promised. "Somehow."

  Washen nodded, thinking that all of this would pass in a few years. Perhaps in a few decades, at most.

  Diu kissed her, and they hugged, and she found herself looking over his shoulder. Locke was a familiar silhouette standing in the jungle. At that distance, through those shadows, she couldn't tell if her son was facing her or if she was looking at his back. Either way, she smiled and mouthed the words, "Be good."

  Then she took a deep breath and told Diu, "Be careful." And she turned away, refusing to watch either of her men vanish into the shadows and gathering smoke. Miocene stood alone, speaking with a thin dry weepy voice. "We're getting closer," she declared, lifting her arms overhead. Closer?

  Then she rose up on her toes, reaching higher, and with a low, pained laugh, she said, "Not close enough. Not yet."

  MISSION YEARS 511.01-1603.73:

  A dozen of the loyal grandchildren discovered the first artifact. Against every rule, they were playing beside a river of liquid iron, and suddenly a mysterious hyperfiber sphere drifted past. With their youngster's courage, they fished it out and cooled it down and brought it back to the encampment. Then for the next hundred years, the sphere lay in storage, under lock and key. But once the captains had reinvented the means, they split the hyperfiber, and inside it was an information vault nearly as old as the earth.

  The device was declared authentic, and useless, its memories erased to gray by the simple crush of time.

  There were attempts at secrecy, but the Waywards always had their spies. One night, without warning, Locke and his father strolled into the main round. Dressed in breechcloth and little else, they found Washen's door, knocked until she screamed, "Enter," then stepped inside, Diu offering a wry grin as Locke made the unexpected proposal: Tons of dried and sweetened meat in exchange for that empty vault.

  Washen didn't have the authority. Four Submasters were pulled out of three beds, and at Miocene's insistence, they grudgingly agreed to the Waywards' terms.

  But the negotiations weren't finished. Diu suddenly handed his ex-commanders wafers of pure sulfur, very rare and essential to the captains' fledgling industries. Then with a wink, he asked, "What would you give us in return for tons more?"

  Everything, thought Washen.

  Diu settled for a laser. As he made sure it had enough punch to penetrate hyperfiber, nervous voices asked how the Waywards would use it. "It's obvious," Diu replied, with easy scorn. "If your little group finds one artifact, by accident, how many more do you think that the Waywards could be sitting on?"

  Afterwards, once or twice every century, the captains discovered new vaults. Most were dead and sold quickly to the Waywards for meat and sulfur. But it was ninth vault that still functioned, its ancient machinery full of images and data, and answers.

  The elegant device was riding in Miocene's lap. She touched it lightly, lovingly, then confessed, "I feel nervous. Nervous, but exceptionally confident."

  The Submaster never usually discussed her moods.

  "With a little luck," she continued, "this treasure will heal these old rifts between them and us."

  "With luck," Washen echoed, thinking it would take more than a little.

  They arrived at the clearing at three in the morning, shiptime. Moments later, several thousand Waywards stepped from the jungle at the same moment, dressed in tool belts and little else, the men often carrying toddlers and their women pregnant, every face feral and self-assured, almost every expression utterly joyous.

  Washen climbed out of the walker, and Miocene handed down the vault.

  To the eye, it wasn't an impressive macbine-a rounded lump of gray ceramics infused with smooth blue-white diamonds. Yet most of the Waywards stared at the prize. Till was the lone exception. Coming down the open slope, walking slowly, he watched Miocene, wariness mixed with other, less legible emotions.

  Locke was following the Waywards' leader at a respectful distance. "How are you, Mother?" he called out. Always polite; never warm.

  "Well enough," Washen allowed. "And you?"

  His answer was an odd, tentative smile.

  Where was Diu? Washen gazed at the crowd, assuming that he was somewhere close, hidden by the crush of bodies.

  "May I examine the device?" asked Till.

  Miocene took the vault from Washen so that she could hand it to her son. And Till covered the largest diamonds with his fingertips, blocking out the light, causing the machine to slowly, slowly awaken.r />
  The clearing was a natural amphitheater, black iron rising on all sides. Washen couldn't count all the Waywards streaming out of the jungle above. Thousands had become tens of thousands. Some of them were her grandchildren and great grandchildren. Diu would know which ones, perhaps. How many of her descendants lived with the Waywards? In the past, during their very occasional meetings, Diu had confided that the Waywards probably numbered in the millions-a distinct possibility since they'd inherited their parents' immortal genes, and since Till seemed to relish fecundity. In principle, this entire audience could be related to Washen. Not bad, she thought. Particularly for a old woman who for many fine reasons had only that one child of her own. The vault began to hum softly, and Locke lifted an arm, shouting, "Now."

  Suddenly the audience was silent, everyone motionless, a palpable anticipation hanging in the hot dry air.

  The sky grew dark, and the clearing vanished.

  Marrow swelled, nearly filling the chamber. Barren and smooth, it was covered in a worldwide ocean of bubbling, irradiated iron that lay just beneath the hyperfiber ceiling, and the audience stood on that ocean, unwarmed, watching an ancient drama play itself out.

  Without sound or any warning, the Bleak appeared, squirming their way through the chamber's wall, through the countless access tunnels-insect like eyborgs, enormous and cold and swift.

  Like a swarm of wasps, they flowed toward Marrow, launching gobs of antimatter that slammed into the molten surface, scorching white-hot explosions rising up and up. The liquid iron swirled and lifted, then collapsed again. In the harsh light, Washen glanced at her son, trying to measure his face, his mood. He looked spellbound, eyes wide and his mouth ajar, his body shivering with an apocalyptic fever. Every face seemed to be seeing this for the first time. Washen remembered the last time she spoke to Diu, almost a decade ago. She asked about the vaults and the Waywards' beliefs, explaining that Miocene was pressing for details. In response, Diu growled, reminding her, "I'm their only nonbeliever, and they don't tell me much. I'm tolerated for my technical expertise, and just as important, because I long ago stopped kowtowing to Miocene and all the rest of you."

  A hyperfiber dome suddenly burst from the iron, lasers firing, a dozen of the Bleak killed before the dome pulled itself under again.

  The Bleak brought reinforcements, then struck again.

  Hyperfiber missiles carried the antimatter deep into the iron. Marrow shook and twisted, then belched gas and fire. Perhaps the Bleak managed to kill the last of the Builders. Perhaps. Either way, the Builders' revenge was in place. Was waiting. In the middle of the attack, with the Bleak's forces pressing hard, the buttressing fields came on, bringing their blue-white glow. Suddenly the Bleak appeared tiny and frail. Then, before they could flee, the lightning storm swept across the sky, dissolving every wisp of matter into a plasma, creating a superheated mist that would persist for millions of years, cooling as Marrow cooled, gradually collecting on the warm, newborn crust.

  Gradually, the Bleak's own carbon and hydrogen and oxygen became Marrow's atmosphere and its rivers, and those same precious elements slowly gathered themselves into butter bugs and virtue traces, then into the wide-eyed children standing in that clearing, weeping as they stared at the radiant sky.

  The present reemerged gradually, almost reluctantly.

  "There's much more," Miocene promised, her voice urgent. Motherly. "Other records show how the ship was attacked. How the Builders retreated to Marrow. This is where they made their last stand, whoever they were." She waited for a long moment, watching her son's unreadable face. Then with a genuine disappointment, she warned, "The Builders never show themselves. We understand a lot more now, but we're still not sure how they looked."

  Till wasn't awe struck by what he had just witnessed. If anything, he was mildly pleased, grinning as if amused, but definitely not excited or surprised, or even particularly interested with what Miocene had to say.

  "Listen to me," she snapped, unable to contain herself any longer. "Do you understand what this means? The Event that trapped us here is some kind of ancient weapon designed to kill the Bleak. And everything else on board the ship ... perhaps .. ."

  "Who's trapped?" Till replied with a smooth, unnerving calm. "I'm not. No believer is. This is exactly where we belong."

  Only Miocene's eyes betrayed her anger.

  Till continued with his explanation, saying, "You're here because the Builders called to you. They lured you here because they needed someone to give birth to us."

  "That's insane," the Submaster snarled.

  Washen was squinting, searching for Diu. She recognized his face and his nervous energy, but only in the children. Where was he? Suddenly it occurred to her that he hadn't been invited, or even worse "I know why you believe this nonsense." Miocene said the words, then took a long step toward Till, empty hands lifting into the air. "It's obvious. When you were a boy, you found one of these vaults. Didn't you? It showed you the war and the Bleak, and that's when you began all of this ... this nonsense about being the Builders reborn ... !"

  Her son regarded her with an amused contempt.

  "You made a mistake," said Miocene, her voice shrill. Accusing. "You were a child, and you didn't understand what you were seeing, and ever since we've had to pay for your ignorance. Don't you see ... ?"

  Her son was smiling, incapable of doubt.

  Looking at the Waywards, Miocene screamed, "Who understands me?"

  Silence.

  "I didn't find any vault," Till claimed. "I was alone in the jungle, and a Builder's spirit appeared to me. He told me about the Ship and the Bleak. He showed me all of this. Then he made me a promise: As this day ends, in the coming twilight, I'll learn my destiny..”

  His voice trailed away into silence.

  Locke kneeled and picked up the vault. Then he looked at Washen, saying matter-of-factly, "The usual payment. That's what we're offering."

  Miocene roared. "What do you mean? This is the best artifact yet!"

  No one responded, gazing at her as if she was insane. "It functions. It remembers." The Submaster was flinging her arms into the air, telling them, "The other vaults were empty, or nearly so-"

  "Exactly," said Till. Then, as if it was beneath their leader to explain the obvious, Locke gave the two of them a look of pity, telling them, "Those vaults are ept because what they were holding is elsewhere now. Elsewhere."

  Till and Locke touched their scalps. Every follower did the same, fifty thousand arms lifting, a great ripple reaching the top of the amphitheater as everyone pointed at their minds. At their reborn souls.

  Locke was staring at his mother.

  A premonition made her mouth dry. "Why isn't Diu here?"

  "Because he's dead," her son replied, an old sadness passing through his face. "I'm sorry. It happened eight years ago, during a powerful eruption."

  Washen couldn't speak, or move. "Are you all right, Mother?"

  She took a breath, then lied. "Yes. I'm fine."

  Then she saw the most astonishing sight yet in this long and astonishing day: Miocene had dropped to her knees, and with a pleading voice, she was begging for Till's forgiveness. "I never should have struck you," she said. She said, "Darling," with genuine anguish. Then as a last resort, she told him, "And I do love the ship. As much as you do, you ungrateful shit ... !"

  MISSION YEAR 4895.33:

  From the very top of the new bridge, where the atmosphere was barely a sloppy vacuum, Marrow finally began to resemble a far away place. The captains appreciated the view. Whenever Washen was on duty, she gazed down at the city-like encampments and sprawling farms, the dormant volcanoes and surviving patches of jungle, feeling a delicious sense of detachment from it all. A soft gray twilight held sway. The buttresses had continued to shrivel and weaken over the last millennia, and if Miocene's model proved true, in another two centuries the buttresses would vanish entirely. For a few moments, or perhaps a few years, there would be no barrier between them and the
ship. Marrow world would be immersed in a perfect blackness. Then the buttresses would reignite suddenly, perhaps accompanied by another Event. But by then the captains and their families, moving with a swift, drilled precision, would have escaped, climbing up this wondrously makeshift bridge, reaching the old base camp, then hopefully, returning to the ship, at last.

  What they would find there, no one knew.

  Or in a polite company, discussed.

  In the last five thousand years, every remote possibility had been suggested, debated in depth, and finally, mercifully, buried in an unmarked grave.

  Whatever was, was.

  That was the mandatory attitude, and it had been for centuries now.

  All that mattered was the bridge. The surviving captains-almost two-thirds of the original complement-lived for its completion. Hundreds of thousands of their descendants worked in distant mines or trucked the ore to the factories. Another half million were manufacturing super strong alloys and crude flavors of hyperfiber, some of each added to the bridge's foundation, while the rest were spun together into hollow tubes. Washen's duty was to oversee the slow, rigorous hoisting of each new tube, then its final attachment. Compared to the original bridge, their contraption was inelegant and preposterously fat. Yet she felt a genuine pride all the same, knowing the sacrifices that went into its construction, and the enormous amounts of time, and when they didn't have any other choice, a lot of desperate, ad hoc inventiveness.

  "Madam Washen?" said a familiar voice. "Excuse me, madam."

  The captain blinked, then turned.

  Her newest assistant stood in the doorway. An intense, self-assured man of no particular age, he was obviously puzzled-a rare expression-and with a mixture of curiosity and confusion, he announced, "Our shift is over."

  "In fifty minutes," Washen replied, knowing the exact time for herself.

  "No, madam." Nervous hands pressed at the crisp fabric of his technician's uniform. "I just heard. We're to leave immediately, using every tube but the Primary."