Genometry

by Gardner Dozois

  The Ibis Crater had been an early, crude experiment. The faction that had created it was long gone, and its primitive creation was now considered tasteless.

  Each gardening faction camped beside its own crater, struggling to bring it to life. But the competitions were a shortcut up the Ladder. The competitors’ philosophies and talents, made into flesh, would carry out a proxy struggle for supremacy. The sine-wave curves of growth, the rallies and declines of expansion and extinction, would scroll across the monitors of the Regal judges like stock market reports. This complex struggle would be weighed in each of its aspects: technological, philosophical, biological, and aesthetic. The winners would abandon their camps to take on Regal wealth and power. They would roam T-K’s jeweled corridors and revel in its perquisites: extended life spans, corporate titles, cosmopolitan tolerance, and the interstellar patronage of the Investors.

  ###

  When red dawn broke over the landscape, the five were poised around the Ibis Crater, awaiting the signal. The day was calm, with only a distant nexus of jet streams marring the sky. Mirasol watched pink-stained sunlight creep down the inside slope of the crater’s western wall. In the mangrove thickets birds were beginning to stir.

  Mirasol waited tensely. She had taken a position on the upper slopes of the landslide’s raw debris. Radar showed her rivals spaced along the interior slopes: to her left, the hourglass crawler and the jewel-headed snake; to her right, a mantislike crawler and the globe on stilts.

  The signal came, sudden as lightning: a meteor of ice shot from orbit and left a shock-wave cloud plume of ablated steam. Mirasol charged forward.

  The Patternists’ strategy was to concentrate on the upper slopes and the landslide’s rubble, a marginal niche where they hoped to excel. Their cold crater in Syrtis Major had given them some expertise in alpine species, and they hoped to exploit this strength. The landslide’s long slope, far above sea level, was to be their power base. The crawler lurched downslope blasting out a fine spray of lichenophagous bacteria.

  Suddenly the air was full of birds. Across the crater, the globe on stilts had rushed down to the waterline and was laying waste the mangroves. Fine wisps of smoke showed the slicing beam of a heavy laser.

  Burst after burst of birds took wing, peeling from their nests to wheel and dip in terror. At first, their frenzied cries came as a high-pitched whisper. Then, as the fear spread, the screeching echoed and reechoed, building to a mindless surf of pain. In the crater’s dawn-warmed air, the scarlet motes hung in their millions, swirling and coalescing like drops of blood in free-fall.

  Mirasol scattered the seeds of alpine rock crops. The crawler picked its way down the talus, spraying fertilizer into cracks and crevices. She pried up boulders and released a scattering of invertebrates: nematodes, mites, sowbugs, altered millipedes. She splattered the rocks with gelatin to feed them until the mosses and ferns took hold.

  The cries of the birds were appalling. Downslope the other factions were thrashing in the muck at sea level, wreaking havoc, destroying the mangroves so that their own creations could take hold. The great snake looped and ducked through the canopy, knotting itself, ripping up swathes of mangroves by the roots. As Mirasol watched, the top of its faceted head burst open and released a cloud of bats.

  The mantis crawler was methodically marching along the borders of its sector, its saw-edged arms reducing everything before it into kindling. The hourglass crawler had slashed through its territory, leaving a mussy network of fire zones. Behind it rose a wall of smoke.

  It was a daring ploy. Sterilizing the sector by fire might give the new biome a slight advantage. Even a small boost could be crucial as exponential rates of growth took hold. But the Ibis Crater was a closed system. The use of fire required great care. There was only so much air within the bowl.

  Mirasol worked grimly. Insects were next. They were often neglected in favor of massive sea beasts or flashy predators, but in terms of biomass, gram by gram, insects could overwhelm. She blasted a carton downslope to the shore, where it melted, releasing aquatic termites. She shoved aside flat shelves of rock, planting egg cases below their sun-warmed surfaces. She released a cloud of leaf-eating midges, their tiny bodies packed with bacteria. Within the crawler’s belly, rack after automatic rack was thawed and fired through nozzles, dropped through spiracles or planted in the holes jabbed by picklike feet.

  Each faction was releasing a potential world. Near the water’s edge, the mantis had released a pair of things like giant black sail planes. They were swooping through the clouds of ibis, opening great sieved mouths. On the islands in the center of the crater’s lake, scaled walruses clambered on the rocks, blowing steam. The stilt ball was laying out an orchard in the mangroves’ wreckage. The snake had taken to the water, its faceted head leaving a wake of V-waves.

  In the hourglass sector, smoke continued to rise. The fires were spreading, and the spider ran frantically along its network of zones. Mirasol watched the movement of the smoke as she released a horde of marmots and rock squirrels.

  A mistake had been made. As the smoky air gushed upward in the feeble Martian gravity, a fierce valley wind of cold air from the heights flowed downward to fill the vacuum. The mangroves burned fiercely. Shattered networks of flaming branches were flying into the air.

  The spider charged into the flames, smashing and trampling. Mirasol laughed, imagining demerits piling up in the judges’ data banks. Her talus slopes were safe from fire. There was nothing to burn.

  The ibis flock had formed a great wheeling ring above the shore. Within their scattered ranks flitted the dark shapes of airborne predators. The long plume of steam from the meteor had begun to twist and break. A sullen wind was building up.

  Fire had broken out in the snake’s sector. The snake was swimming in the sea’s muddy waters, surrounded by bales of bright-green kelp. Before its pilot noticed, fire was already roaring through a great piled heap of the wreckage it had left on shore. There were no windbreaks left. Air poured down the denuded slope. The smoke column guttered and twisted, its black clouds alive with sparks.

  A flock of ibis plunged into the cloud. Only a handful emerged; some of them were flaming visibly. Mirasol began to know fear. As smoke rose to the crater’s rim, it cooled and started to fall outward and downward. A vertical whirlwind was forming, a torus of hot smoke and cold wind.

  The crawler scattered seed-packed hay for pygmy mountain goats. Just before her an ibis fell from the sky with a dark squirming shape, all claws and teeth, clinging to its neck. She rushed forward and crushed the predator, then stopped and stared distractedly across the crater.

  Fires were spreading with unnatural speed. Small puffs of smoke rose from a dozen places, striking large heaps of wood with uncanny precision. Her altered brain searched for a pattern. The fires springing up in the mantic sector were well beyond the reach of any falling debris.

  In the spider’s zone, flames had leapt the firebreaks without leaving a mark. The pattern felt wrong to her, eerily wrong, as if the destruction had a force all its own, a raging synergy that fed upon itself.

  The pattern spread into a devouring crescent. Mirasol felt the dread of lost control—the sweating fear an orbiter feels at the hiss of escaping air or the way a suicide feels at the first bright gush of blood.

  Within an hour the garden sprawled beneath a hurricane of hot decay. The dense columns of smoke had flattened like thunderheads at the limits of the garden’s sunken troposphere. Slowly a spark-shot gray haze, dripping ash like rain, began to ring the crater. Screaming birds circled beneath the foul torus, falling by tens and scores and hundreds. Their bodies littered the garden’s sea, their bright plumage blurred with ash in a steel-gray sump.

  The landcraft of the others continued to fight the flames, smashing unharmed through the fire’s charred borderlands. Their efforts were useless, a pathetic ritual before the disaster.

  Even the fire’s malicious purity had grown tired and tainted. The oxygen was fai
ling. The flames were dimmer and spread more slowly, releasing a dark nastiness of half-combusted smoke.

  Where it spread, nothing that breathed could live. Even the flames were killed as the smoke billowed along the crater’s crushed and smoldering slopes.

  Mirasol watched a group of striped gazelles struggle up the barren slopes of the talus in search of air. Their dark eyes, fresh from the laboratory, rolled in timeless animal fear. Their coats were scorched, their flanks heaved, their mouths dripped foam. One by one they collapsed in convulsions, kicking at the lifeless Martian rock as they slid and fell. It was a vile sight, the image of a blighted spring.

  An oblique flash of red downslope to her left attracted her attention. A large red animal was skulking among the rocks. She turned the crawler and picked her way toward it, wincing as a dark surf of poisoned smoke broke across the fretted glass.

  She spotted the animal as it broke from cover. It was a scorched and gasping creature like a great red ape. She dashed forward and seized it in the crawler’s arms. Held aloft, it clawed and kicked, hammering the crawler’s arms with a smoldering branch. In revulsion and pity, she crushed it. Its bodice of tight-sewn ibis feathers tore, revealing blood-slicked human flesh.

  Using the crawler’s grips, she tugged at a heavy tuft of feathers on its head. The tight-fitting mask ripped free, and the dead man’s head slumped forward. She rolled it back, revealing a face tattooed with stars.

  ###

  The ornithopter sculled above the burned-out garden, its long red wings beating with dreamlike fluidity. Mirasol watched the Sorienti’s painted face as her corporate ladyship stared into the shining viewscreen.

  The ornithopter’s powerful cameras cast image after image onto the tabletop screen, lighting the Regal’s face. The tabletop was littered with the Sorienti’s elegant knickknacks: an inhaler case, a half-empty jeweled squeeze bulb, lorgnette binoculars, a stack of tape cassettes.

  “An unprecedented case,” her ladyship murmured. “It was not a total dieback after all but merely the extinction of everything with lungs. There must be strong survivorship among the lower orders: fish, insects, annelids. Now that the rain’s settled the ash, you can see the vegetation making a strong comeback. Your own section seems almost undamaged.”

  “Yes,” Mirasol said. “The natives were unable to reach it with torches before the fire storm had smothered itself.”

  The Sorienti leaned back into the tasseled arms of her couch. “I wish you wouldn’t mention them so loudly, even between ourselves.”

  “No one would believe me.”

  “The others never saw them,” the Regal said. “They were too busy fighting the flames.” She hesitated briefly. “You were wise to confide in me first”

  Mirasol locked eyes with her new patroness, then looked away. “There was no one else to tell. They’d have said I built a pattern out of nothing but my own fears.”

  “You have your faction to think of,” the Sorienti said with an air of sympathy. “With such a bright future ahead of them, they don’t need a renewed reputation for paranoid fantasies.”

  She studied the screen. “The Patternists are winners by default. It certainly makes an interesting case study. If the new garden grows tiresome we can have the whole crater sterilized from orbit. Some other faction can start again with a clean slate.”

  “Don’t let them build too close to the edge,” Mirasol said.

  Her corporate ladyship watched her attentively, tilting her head.

  “I have no proof,” Mirasol said, “but I can see the pattern behind it all. The natives had to come from somewhere. The colony that stocked the crater must have been destroyed in that huge landslide. Was that your work? Did your people kill them?”

  The Sorienti smiled. “You’re very bright, my dear. You will do well, up the Ladder. And you can keep secrets. Your office as my secretary suits you very well.”

  “They were destroyed from orbit,” Mirasol said. “Why else would they hide from us? You tried to annihilate them.”

  “It was a long time ago,” the Regal said. “In the early days, when things were shakier. They were researching the secret of star-flight, techniques only the Investors know. Rumor says they reached success at last, in their redemption camp. After that, there was no choice.”

  “Then they were killed for the Investors’ profit,” Mirasol said. She stood up quickly and walked around the cabin, her new jeweled skirt clattering around the knees. “So that the aliens could go on toying with us, hiding their secret, selling us trinkets.”

  The Regal folded her hands with a clicking of rings and bracelets. “Our Lobster King is wise,” she said. “If humanity’s efforts turned to the stars, what would become of terraforming? Why should we trade the power of creation itself to become like the Investors?”

  “But think of the people,” Mirasol said. “Think of them losing their technologies, degenerating into human beings. A handful of savages, eating bird meat. Think of the fear they felt for generations, the way they burned their own home and killed themselves when they saw us come to smash and destroy their world. Aren’t you filled with horror?”

  “For humans?” the Sorienti said. “No!”

  “But can’t you see? You’ve given this planet life as an art form, as an enormous game. You force us to play in it, and those people were killed for it! Can’t you see how that blights everything?”

  “Our game is reality,” the Regal said. She gestured at the viewscreen. “You can’t deny the savage beauty of destruction.”

  “You defend this catastrophe?”

  The Regal shrugged. “If life worked perfectly, how could things evolve? Aren’t we Posthuman? Things grow, things die. In time the cosmos kills us all. The cosmos has no meaning, and its emptiness is absolute. That’s pure terror, but it’s also pure freedom. Only our ambitions and our creations can fill it.”

  “And that justifies your actions?”

  “We act for life,” the Regal said. “Our ambitions have become this world’s natural laws. We blunder because life blunders. We go on because life must go on. When you’ve taken the long view, from orbit—when the power we wield is in your own hands—then you can judge us.” She smiled. “You will be judging yourself. You’ll be Regal.”

  “But what about your captive factions? Your agents, who do your will? Once we had our own ambitions. We failed, and now you isolate us, indoctrinate us, make us into rumors. We must have something of our own. Now we have nothing.”

  “That’s not so. You have what we’ve given you. You have the Ladder.”

  The vision stung Mirasol: power, light, the hint of justice, this world with its sins and sadness shrunk to a bright arena far below. “Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, we do.”

  THE OTHER SHORE

  J.R. Dunn

  Here’s one of the most harrowing potentialities of genetic technology, a nightmare scenario that, thank God, hasn’t yet come to pass—but one that could, any day now.

  A former political reporter, J.R. Dunn has made sales to Omni, Asimov’s Science Fiction, Amazing, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and other markets. His books include This Side of Judgment.

  ###

  “What do they call their lawyers over there?” Dave glanced at Bedford, unable to make out his features in the darkness. A blank silhouette against the passing outside lights and no more. “It’s the British system,” he said. “Solicitors and barristers. One prepares the case, the other argues it. I forget which is which . . .”

  “That’s okay,” Bedford said. “Long as I see justice.” The words were followed by a short laugh.

  Dave made no reply. Bedford had been saying that continually over the past weeks, as if the words were a kind of mantra. He usually made a joke of it, as he did most things, but Dave had stopped laughing. There was no such thing as justice where Arthur Bedford was headed.

  It was well past midnight—closer to one, in fact; they’d started late. He looked out the rear window at the tai
l car, twenty feet behind. Four men in that one, the same in the car ahead, and two in this one aside from Dave himself. All armed. Dave with his service revolver, the rest with MP-5s or Ingrams. There were people who thought Bedford didn’t need a trial.

  They were taking the back roads to the airport instead of the main highway. Another convoy drove that route, a decoy with a lot more cars, shepherded by lifters and helicopters. A bit obvious, Dave thought; it wouldn’t fool many, but everything helped. He looked down at his watch. Another fifteen minutes and they’d be airborne and he could relax.

  Words blurred by static sounded from the radio. In the front seat Wolfe lifted the headset and held it to one ear. He muttered into the mike and tossed it on the dash. “Goddammit,” he said. He turned to face Dave. “There’s a riot brewing at the airport. Word leaked out somehow. At least fifteen hundred maniacs in front of the terminal.”

  Dave felt Bedford stiffen. “Who is it?” he said.

  “Everybody,” Wolfe replied. “Black Justice Coalition, CORE, Remembrance, the Klan, that nut cult claims Satan made ’em do it, the goddamn Nazis for Chrissake. All about to go for each other’s throats.” He shook his head in disgust. “How they found out, I don’t know.”

  “Could have been anybody,” Dave said. “There’s always some jackass who’s got to tell his old lady. Never fails.” He turned to Bedford. “Don’t worry about it,” he said quietly. “A company of federal troops are there. It’ll be okay.” There was no reply so he turned back to Wolfe. “Any changes in the route?”

  “Yeah,” Wolfe said. “They’re taking out a piece of runway fence half-mile north of the terminal.” He looked over at the driver. “They’ll drop it as soon as we show, Al.” The driver nodded wordlessly.