The Year’s Best Science Fiction (St Martin's) 26

by Gardner Dozois

  He said nothing.

  “Would we take such an enormous risk if we didn’t have the means to protect ourselves?”

  Joe stared at her for a long while. Then he looked beyond her body, at a random point on the soft white wall. Quietly he asked, “Who am I?”

  She didn’t understand the question.

  “You’ve seen some little digitals of me. Supposedly you’ve peaked at my files. But do you know for sure who I am?”

  She nearly laughed. “Joseph Carroway.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “Security,” he said abruptly. “I need you here. Now.”

  Whatever was happening, it was interesting. Despite the miseries inflicted on her mind and aching body, the prisoner twisted her long neck, watching three heavily armed soldiers kick their way into her cell.

  “This is an emergency,” Joe announced. “I need everybody. Your full squad in here now.”

  The ranking officer was a small woman with the bulging muscles. A look of genuine admiration showed in her face. She knew all about Joe Carroway. Who didn’t? But her training and regulations held sway. This man might have saved the Earth, on one or several occasions, but she still had the fortitude to remind him, “I can’t bring everybody in here. That’s against regulations.”

  Joe nodded.

  Sighing, he said, “Then we’ll just have to make due.”

  In an instant, with a smooth, almost beautiful motion, he grabbed the officer’s face and broke her jaw and then pulled a weapon from his pocket, shoving the stubby barrel into the nearest face.

  The pistol made a soft, almost negligible sound.

  The remains of the skull were scattered into the face of the next guard.

  He shot that soldier twice and then killed the commanding officer before grabbing up her weapon, using his security code to override its safety and then leaping into the passageway. The prisoner strained at her bonds. Mesmerized, she counted the soft blasts and the shouts, and she stared, trying to see through the spreading fog of blood and shredded brain matter. Then a familiar figure reappeared, moving with a commendable grace despite having a body designed to trek across the savannas of Africa.

  “We have to go,” said Joe. “Now.”

  He was carrying a fresh gun and jumpsuit.

  “I don’t believe this,” she managed.

  He cut her bonds and said, “Didn’t think you would.” Then he paused, just for an instant. “Joe Carroway was captured and killed three years ago, during the Tranquility business. I’m the lucky man they spliced together to replace that dead asshole.”

  “You’re telling me—?”

  “Suit up. Let’s go, lady.”

  “You can’t be.” She was numb, fighting to understand what was possible, no matter how unlikely. “What species of Rebirth are you?”

  “I was an Eagle,” he said.

  She stared at the face. Never in her life had she tried so hard to slice through skin and eyes, fighting to decipher what was true.

  “Suit up,” he said again.

  “But I don’t see—?”

  Joe turned suddenly, launching a recoilless bundle out into the hall. The detonation was a soft crack, smart-shards aiming only for armor and flesh. Sparing the critical hull surrounding them.

  “We’ll have to fight our way to my ship,” he warned.

  Slowly, with stiff clumsy motions, she dressed herself. Then as the suit retailored itself to match her body, she said again, “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe any of this.”

  Now Joe stared at her.

  Hard.

  “What do you think, lady?” he asked. “You rewrote your own biology in a thousand crazy ways. But one of your brothers—a proud Eagle—isn’t able to reshape himself? He can’t take on the face of your worst enemy? He can’t steal the dead man’s memories? He is allowed this kind of power, all in a final bid to get revenge for what that miserable shit’s done to us?”

  She dipped her head.

  No, she didn’t believe him.

  But three hours later, as they were making the long bum out of Earth orbit, a flash of blue light announced the abrupt death of fifty million humans and perhaps half a million innocents.

  “A worthy trade,” said the man strapped into the seat beside her.

  And that was the moment when Glory finally offered two of her hands to join up with one of his, and after that, her other two hands as well.

  Her nest was the nearest Antfolk habitat. Waiting at the moon’s L5 Lagrange point, the asteroid was a smooth blackish ball, heat-absorbing armor slathered deep over the surface of a fully infested cubic kilometer—a city where thousands of bodies squirmed about in freefall, thriving inside a maze of warm tunnels and airy rooms. Banks of fusion reactors powered factories and the sun-bright lights. Trim, enduring ecosystems created an endless feast of edible gruel and free oxygen. The society was unique, at least within the short rich history of the Rebirths. Communal and technologically adept, this species had accomplished much in a very brief period. That’s why it was so easy for them to believe that they alone now possessed the keys to the universe.

  Joe was taken into custody. Into quarantine. Teams drawn from security and medical castes tried to piece together the truth, draining off his blood and running electrodes into his skull, inflicting him with induced emotions and relentless urges to be utterly, perfectly honest.

  The Earth’s counterassault arrived on schedule—lasers and missiles followed by robot shock troops. But the asteroid’s defense network absorbed every blow. Damage was minor, casualties light, and before larger attacks could be organized, the Antfolk sent an ultimatum to the UN: One hundred additional fusion devices had been smuggled to the Earth’s surface, each now hidden and secured, waiting for any excuse to erupt.

  For the good of humankind, the Antfolk were claiming dominion over everything that lay beyond the Earth’s atmosphere. Orbital facilities and the lunar cities would be permitted, but only if reasonable rents were paid. Other demands included nationhood status for each of the Rebirth species, reimbursements for all past wrongs, and within the next year, the total and permanent dismantling of the United Nations.

  Both sides declared a ragged truce.

  Eight days later, Joe was released from his cell, guards escorting him along a tunnel marked by pheromones and infrared signatures. Glory was waiting, wearing her best gown and a wide, hopeful smile. The Antfolk man beside her seemed less sure. He was a giant hairless creature. Leader of the nest’s political caste, he glared at the muscular sapien, and with a cool smooth voice said, “The tunnel before you splits, Mr. Carroway. Which way will you travel?”

  “What are my choices?” asked the prisoner.

  “Death now,” the man promised. “Or death in some ill-defined future.”

  “I think I prefer the future,” he mentioned. Then he glanced at Glory, meeting her worried smile with a wink and slight nod.

  Glancing at her superior, Glory spoke with eyes and the silent mouth.

  “I don’t relish the idea of trusting you,” the man confessed. “But every story you’ve told us, with words and genetics, has been confirmed by every available source. You were once a man named Magnificent. We see traces of your original DNA inside what used to be Joseph Carroway. It seems that our old enemy was indeed taken prisoner during the Luna Revolt. The Eagles were a talented bunch. They may well have camouflaged you inside Mr. Carroway’s body and substance. A sorry thing that the species was exterminated—save for you, of course. But once this new war is finished, I promise you . . . my people will reconstitute yours as well as your culture, to the best of our considerable abilities.”

  Joe dipped his head. “I can only hope to see that day, sir.”

  The man had giant white eyes and tiny blond teeth. Watching the prisoner did no good; he could not read this man’s soul. So he turned to Glory, prompting her with the almost invisible flick of a finger.

  She told Joe, “The UN attack was almost exactly as yo
u expected it to be, and your advice proved extremely useful. Thank you.”

  Joe showed a smug little smile.

  “And you’ve told us a lot we didn’t know,” Glory continued. “Those ten agents on Pallas. The Deimos booby trap. And how the UN would go about searching for the rest of our nuclear devices.”

  “Are your bombs safe?”

  She glanced at her superior, finding encouragement in some little twitch of the face. Then she said, “Yes.”

  “Do you want to know their locations?” the man asked Joe.

  “No,” Joe blurted.

  Then in the next breath, he added, “And I hope you don’t know that either, sir. You’re too much of a target, should somebody grab you up.”

  “More good advice,” the man replied.

  That was the instant when Joe realized that he wouldn’t be executed as a precaution. More than three years of careful preparation had led to this: The intricate back-story and genetic trickery were his ideas. Carrying off every aspect of this project, from the Eagle’s identity to his heightened capacity to read bodies and voices, was the end result of hard training. Hundreds of specialists, all Als, had helped produce the new Joseph Carroway. And then each one of those machines was wiped stupid and melted to an anonymous slag.

  On that day when he dreamed up this outrageous plan, the Antfolk were still just one of a dozen Rebirths that might or might not cause trouble someday.

  Nobody could have planned for these last weeks.

  Killing the guards to free the woman was an inspiration and a necessity, and he never bothered to question it. One hundred fusion bombs were scattered across a helpless, highly vulnerable planet, and setting them off would mean billions dead, and perhaps civilization too. Sacrificing a few soldiers to protect the rest of the world was a plan born of simple, pure mathematics.

  The Antfolk man coughed softly. “From this point on, Joe . . . or should I call you Magnificent?”

  With an appealing smile, he said, “I’ve grown attached to Joe.”

  The other two laughed gently. Then the man said, “For now, you are my personal guest. And except for security bracelets and a bomblet planted inside your skull, you will be given the freedoms and responsibilities expected of all worthy visitors.”

  “Then I am grateful,” said Joe. “Thank you to your nation and to your good species, sir. Thank you so much.”

  The truce was shattered with one desperate assault—three brigades of shock troops riding inside untested star-drive boosters, supported by every weapon system and reconfigured com-laser available to the UN. The cost was twenty thousand dead sapiens and a little less than a trillion dollars. One platoon managed to insert itself inside Joe’s nest, but when the invaders grabbed the nursery and a thousand young hostages, he distinguished himself by helping plan and then lead the counterstrike. All accounts made him the hero. He killed several of the enemy, and alone, he managed to disable the warhead that would have shattered their little world. But even the most grateful mother insisted on looking at their savior with detached pleasure. Trust was impossible. Joe’s face was too strange, his reputation far too familiar. Pheromones delivered the mandatory thanks, and there were a few cold gestures wishing the hero well. But there were insults too, directed at him and at the long lovely woman who was by now sleeping with him.

  In retribution for that final attack, the Antfolk detonated a second nuclear weapon, shearing off one slope of the Hawaii volcano and killing eight million with the resulting tsunami.

  Nine days later, the UN collapsed, reformed from the wreckage and then shattered again before the next dawn. What rose from that sorry wreckage enjoyed both the laws to control every aspect of the mother world and the mandate to beg for their enemies’ mercy.

  The giants in the sky demanded, and subsequently won, each of their original terms.

  For another three months, Joe lived inside the little asteroid, enduring a never-subtle shunning.

  Then higher powers learned of his plight and intervened. For the next four years, he traveled widely across the new empire, always in the company of Glory, the two of them meeting an array of leaders, scientists, and soldiers—that last group as suspicious as any, but always eager to learn whatever little tricks the famous Carroway might share with them.

  To the end, Joe remained under constant observation. Glory made daily reports about his behaviors and her own expert impressions. Their relationship originally began under orders from Pallas, but when she realized that they might well remain joined until one or both died, she discovered, to her considerable surprise, that she wasn’t displeased with her fate.

  In the vernacular of her species, she had floated into love . . . and so what if the object of her affections was an apish goon . . . ?

  During their journey, they visited twenty little worlds, plus Pallas and Ceres and Vesta. The man beside her was never out of character. He was intense and occasionally funny, and he was quick to learn and astute with his observations about life inside the various nests. Because it would be important for the last member of a species, Joe pushed hard for the resurrection of the fabled Eagles. Final permission came just as he and Glory were about to travel to outer moons of Jupiter. Three tedious, painful days were spent inside the finest biogenic lab in the solar system. Samples of bone and marrow and fat and blood were cultured, and delicate machines rapidly separated what had been Joe from the key traces of the creature that had been dubbed Magnificent.

  A long voyage demands large velocities, which was why the transport ship made an initial high-gee burn. The crew and passengers were strapped into elaborate crash seats, their blood laced with comfort drugs, eyes and minds distracted by immersion masks. Six hours after they leaped clear of Vesta, Joe disabled each of his tracking bracelets and then the bomblet inside his head, and then he slipped out of his seat, fighting the terrific acceleration as he worked his way to the bridge.

  The transport was an enormous, utterly modern spaceship. The watch officer was on the bridge, stretched out in his own crash seat. Instantly suspicious and without even the odor of politeness, he demanded that his important passenger leave at once. Joe smiled for a moment. Then he turned without complaint or hesitation, showing his broad back to the spidery fellow before he climbed out of view.

  What killed the officer was a fleck of dust carrying microchines—a fleet of tiny devices that attacked essential genes found inside the Antfolk metabolism, causing a choking sensation, vomiting and then death.

  Joe returned to the bridge and sent a brief, heavily coded message to the Earth. Then he did a cursory job of destroying the ship’s security systems. With luck, he had earned himself a few hours of peace. But when he returned to his cabin, Glory was gone. She had pulled herself out her seat, or somebody had roused her. For a moment, he touched the deep padding, allowing the sheets to wrap around his arm and hand, and he carefully measured the heat left behind by her long, lovely body.

  “Too bad,” he muttered.

  The transport carried five fully equipped lifepods. Working fast, Joe killed the hanger’s robots and both of the resident mechanics. Then he dressed in the only pressure suit configured for his body and crippled all but one of the pods. His plan was to flee without fuss. The pods had potent engines and were almost impossible to track. There was no need for more corpses and mayhem. But he wanted a backup plan, in case, which was what he was working on when the ship’s engines abruptly cut out.

  A few minutes later, an armed team crawled into the hanger through a random vent.

  There was no reason to fight, since Joe was certain to lose.

  Instead he surrendered his homemade weapons and looked past the nervous crew, finding the lovely hairless face that he knew better than his own.

  “What did you tell them?” Glory asked.

  “Tell who?”

  “Your people,” she said. “The Earth.”

  Glory didn’t expect answers, much less any honest words. But the simple fact was that whatever he
said now and did now was inconsequential: Joe would survive or die in this cold realm, but what happened next would change nothing that was about to happen elsewhere.

  “Your little home nest,” he began.

  She drifted forward, and then hesitated.

  “It will be dead soon,” he promised. “And nothing can be done to save it.”

  “Is there a bomb?”

  “No,” he said. “A microchine plague. I brought it with me when I snatched you away, Glory. It was hiding inside my bones.”

  “But you were tested,” she said.

  “Not well enough.”

  “We hunted for diseases,” she insisted. “Agents. Toxins. We have the best minds anywhere, and we searched you inside and out . . . and found nothing remotely dangerous . . .”

  He watched the wind leak out of her. Then very quietly, Joe admitted, “You might have the best minds. And best by a long ways. But we have a lot more brains down on the Earth, and I promise, a few of us are a good deal meaner than even you could ever be.”

  Enduring torture, Glory never looked this frail or sad.

  Joe continued. “Every world you’ve taken me to is contaminated. I made certain of that. And since you managed to set off two bombs on my world, the plan is to obliterate two of your worlds. After that, if you refuse to surrender, it’s fair to guess that every bomb and disease on both sides is going be set free. Then in the end, nobody wins. Ever.”

  Glory could not look at him.

  Joe laughed, aiming to humiliate.

  He said, “I don’t care how smart or noble you are. Like everybody else, you’re nothing but meat and scared brains. And now you’ve been thrown into a dead-end tunnel, and I am Death standing at the tunnel’s mouth.

  “The clock is ticking. Can you make the right decision?”

  Glory made a tiny, almost invisible motion with her smallest finger, betraying her intentions.

  Joe leaped backward. The final working lifepod was open, and he dove inside as its hatch slammed shut, moments before the doomed could manage one respectable shot. Then twenty weapons were firing at a hull designed to shrug off the abuse of meteors and sapien weapons. Joe pulled himself into the pilot’s ill-fitting chair, and once he was strapped down, he triggered his just-finished booby trap.