The Year’s Best Science Fiction

by Gardner Dozois

  She approached me with a grin, pushing back goggles under a hard hat. “Toby.” I got a kiss on the cheek and a brief hug; she smelled of machine oil. We were easy with each other physically. Fifteen years earlier, in our last year at college, we’d been lovers, briefly; it had finished with a kind of regretful embarrassment—very English, said our American friends—but it had proven only a kind of speed bump in our relationship. “Glad to see you, if surprised. I thought all you civil service types would be locked down in emergency meetings.”

  For a decade I’d been a civil servant in the environment ministry. “No, but old Thorp—” my minister “—has been in a continuous COBRA session for twenty-four hours. Much good it’s doing anybody.”

  “I must say it’s not obvious to the layman what use an environment minister is when the aliens are coming.”

  “Well, among the scenarios they’re discussing is some kind of attack from space. A lot of what we can dream up is similar to natural disasters—a meteor fall could be like a tsunami, a sunlight occlusion like a massive volcanic event. And so Thorp is in the mix, along with health, energy, transport. Of course we’re in contact with other governments—NATO, the UN. The most urgent issue right now is whether to signal or not.”

  She frowned. “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “Security. Edith, remember, we know absolutely nothing about these guys. What if our signal was interpreted as a threat? And there are tactical considerations. Any signal would give information to a potential enemy about our technical capabilities. It would also give away the very fact that we know they are here.”

  She scoffed. “‘Tactical considerations.’ Paranoid bullshit! And besides, I bet every kid with a CB radio is beaming out her heart to ET right now. The whole planet’s alight.”

  “Well, that’s true. You can’t stop it. But still, sending some kind of signal authorised by government or an inter-government agency is another step entirely.”

  “Oh, come on. You can’t really believe anybody is going to cross the stars to harm us. What could they possibly want that would justify the cost of an interstellar mission?…”

  So we argued. I’d only been out of the car for five minutes.

  We’d had this kind of discussion all the way back to late nights in college, some of them in her bed, or mine. She’d always been drawn to the bigger issues—“to the context,” as she used to say. Though we’d both started out as maths students, her head had soon expanded in the exotic intellectual air of the college, and she’d moved on to study older ways of thinking than the scientific—older questions, still unanswered. Was there a God? If so, or if not, what was the point of our existence? Why did we, or indeed anything, exist at all? In her later college years she took theology options, but quickly burned through that discipline and was left unsatisfied. She was repelled too by the modern atheists, with their aggressive denials. So, after college, she had started her own journey through life—a journey in search of answers. Now, of course, maybe some of those answers had come swimming in from the stars in search of her.

  This was why I’d felt drawn here, at this particular moment in my life. I needed her perspective. In the wan daylight I could see the fine patina of lines around the mouth I used to kiss, and the strands of grey in her red hair. I was sure she suspected, rightly, that I knew more than I was telling her—more than had been released to the public. But she didn’t follow that up for now.

  “Come see what I’m doing,” she said, sharply breaking up the debate. “Watch your shoes.” We walked across muddy grass towards the main door. The core of that old church, dedicated to St. Cuthbert, was a Saxon-era tower; the rest of the fabric was mostly Norman, but there had been an extensive restoration in Victorian times. Within was a lovely space, if cold, the stone walls resonating. It was still consecrated, Church of England, but in this empty agricultural countryside it was one of a widespread string of churches united in a single parish, and rarely used.

  Edith had never joined any of the established religions, but she had appropriated some of their infrastructure, she liked to say. And here she had gathered a group of volunteers, wandering souls more or less like-minded. They worked to maintain the fabric of the church. And within, she led her group through what you might think of as a mix of discussions, or prayers, or meditation, or yoga practices—whatever she could find that seemed to work. This was the way religions used to be before the big monotheistic creeds took over, she argued. “The only way to reach God, or anyhow the space beyond us where God ought to be, is by working hard, by helping other people—and by pushing your mind to the limit of its capability, and then going a little beyond, and just listening.” Beyond logos to mythos. She was always restless, always trying something new. Yet in some ways she was the most contented person I ever met—at least before the Incoming showed up.

  Now, though, she wasn’t content about the state of the church’s foundations. She showed me where she had dug up flagstones to reveal sodden ground. “We’re digging out new drainage channels, but it’s a hell of a job. We may end up rebuilding the founds altogether. The very deepest level seems to be wood, huge piles of Saxon oak…” She eyed me. “This church has stood here for a thousand years, without, apparently, facing a threat such as this before. Some measure of climate change, right?”

  I shrugged. “I suppose you’d say we arseholes in the environment ministry should be concentrating on stuff like this rather than preparing to fight interstellar wars.”

  “Well, so you should. And maybe a more mature species would be preparing for positive outcomes. Think of it, Tobe! There are now creatures in this solar system who are smarter than us. They have to be, or they wouldn’t be here—right? Somewhere between us and the angels. Who knows what they can tell us? What is their science, their art—their theology?”

  I frowned. “But what do they want? For that’s what may count from now on—their agenda, not ours.”

  “There you are being paranoid again.” But she hesitated. “What about Meryl and the kids?”

  “Meryl at home. Mark and Sophie at school.” I shrugged. “Life as normal.”

  “Some people are freaking out. Raiding the supermarkets.”

  “Some people always do. We want things to continue as normally as possible, as long as possible. Modern society is efficient, you know, Edith, but not very resilient. A fuel strike could cripple us in a week, let alone alien invaders.”

  She pushed a loose grey hair back under her hard hat, and looked at me suspiciously. “But you seem very calm, considering. You know something. Don’t you, you bastard?”

  I grinned. “And you know me.”

  “Spill it.”

  “Two things. We picked up signals. Or, more likely, leakage. You know about the infrared stuff we’ve seen for a while, coming from the nucleus. Now we’ve detected radio noise, faint, clearly structured, very complex. It may be some kind of internal channel rather than anything meant for us. But if we can figure anything out from it—”

  “Well, that’s exciting. And the second thing? Come on, Miller.”

  “We have more refined trajectory data. All this will be released soon—it’s probably leaked already.”

  “Yes?”

  “The Incoming are heading for the inner solar system. But they aren’t coming here—not to Earth.”

  She frowned. “Then where?”

  I dropped my bombshell. “Venus. Not Earth. They’re heading for Venus, Edith.”

  She looked into the clouded sky, the bright patch that marked the position of the sun, and the inner planets. “Venus? That’s a cloudy hellhole. What would they want there?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Well, I’m used to living with questions I’ll never be able to answer. Let’s hope this isn’t one of them. In the meantime, let’s make ourselves useful.” She eyed my crumpled Whitehall suit, my patent leather shoes already splashed with mud. “Have you got time to stay? You want to help out with my drain? I’ve a spare overall that
might fit.”

  Talking, speculating, we walked through the church.

  * * *

  We used the excuse of Edith’s Goonhilly event to make a family trip to Cornwall.

  We took the A-road snaking west down the spine of the Cornish peninsula, and stopped at a small hotel in Helston. The pretty little town was decked out that day for the annual Furry Dance, an ancient, eccentric carnival when the local children would weave in and out of the houses on the hilly streets. The next morning Meryl was to take the kids to the beach, further up the coast.

  And, just about at dawn, I set off alone in a hired car for the A-road to the south-east, towards Goonhilly Down. It was a clear May morning. As I drove I was aware of Venus, rising in the eastern sky and clearly visible in my rearview mirror, a lamp shining steadily even as the day brightened.

  Goonhilly is a stretch of high open land, a windy place. Its claim to fame is that at one time it hosted the largest telecoms satellite earth station in the world—it picked up the first live transatlantic TV broadcast, via Telstar. It was decommissioned years ago, but its oldest dish, a thousand-tonne parabolic bowl called “Arthur” after the king, became a listed building, and so was preserved. And that was how it was available for Edith and her committee of messagers to get hold of, when they, or rather she, grew impatient with the government’s continuing reticence. Because of the official policy I had to help with smoothing through the permissions, all behind the scenes.

  Just after my first glimpse of the surviving dishes on the skyline I came up against a police cordon, a hastily erected plastic fence that excluded a few groups of chanting Shouters and a fundamentalist-religious group protesting that the messagers were communicating with the Devil. My ministry card helped me get through.

  Edith was waiting for me at the old site’s visitors’ centre, opened up that morning for breakfast, coffee and cereals and toast. Her volunteers cleared up dirty dishes under a big wall screen showing a live feed from a space telescope—the best images available right now, though every major space agency had a probe to Venus in preparation, and NASA had already fired one off. The Incoming nucleus (it seemed inappropriate to call that lump of dirty ice a “craft,” though such it clearly was) was a brilliant star, too small to show a disc, swinging in its wide orbit above a half-moon Venus. And on the planet’s night side you could clearly make out the Patch, that strange, complicated glow in the cloud banks tracking the Incoming’s orbit precisely. It was strange to gaze upon that choreography in space, and then to turn to the east and see Venus with the naked eye.

  And Edith’s volunteers, a few dozen earnest men, women and children who looked like they had gathered for a village show, had the audacity to believe they could speak to these godlike forms in the sky.

  There was a terrific metallic groan. We turned, and saw that Arthur was turning on his concrete pivot. The volunteers cheered, and a general drift towards the monument began.

  Edith walked with me, cradling a polystyrene tea cup in the palms of fingerless gloves. “I’m glad you could make it down. Should have brought the kids. Some of the locals from Helston are here; they’ve made the whole stunt part of their Furry Dance celebration. Did you see the preparations in town? Supposed to celebrate St. Michael beating up on the Devil—I wonder how appropriate that symbolism is. Anyhow this ought to be a fun day. Later there’ll be a barn dance.”

  “Meryl thought it was safer to take the kids to the beach. Just in case anything gets upsetting here—you know.” That was most of the truth. There was a subtext that Meryl had never much enjoyed being in the same room as my ex.

  “Probably wise. Our British Shouters are a mild bunch, but in rowdier parts of the world there has been trouble.” The loose international coalition of groups called the Shouters was paradoxically named, because they campaigned for silence; they argued that “shouting in the jungle” by sending signals to the Incoming or the Venusians was taking an irresponsible risk. Of course they could do nothing about the low-level chatter that had been targeted at the Incoming since it had first been sighted, nearly a year ago already. Edith waved a hand at Arthur. “If I were a Shouter, I’d be here today. This will be by far the most powerful message sent from the British Isles.”

  I’d seen and heard roughs of Edith’s message. In with a Carl Sagan–style prime number lexicon, there was digitised music from Bach to Zulu chants, and art from cave paintings to Warhol, and images of mankind featuring a lot of smiling children, and astronauts on the Moon. There was even a copy of the old Pioneer spaceprobe plaque from the seventies, with the smiling naked couple. At least, I thought cynically, all that fluffy stuff would provide a counterpoint to the images of war, murder, famine, plague and other sufferings that the Incoming had no doubt sampled by now, if they’d chosen to.

  I said, “But I get the feeling they’re just not interested. Neither the Incoming nor the Venusians. Sorry to rain on your parade.”

  “I take it the cryptolinguists aren’t getting anywhere decoding the signals?”

  “They’re not so much ‘signals’ as leakage from internal processes, we think. In both cases, the nucleus and the Patch.” I rubbed my face; I was tired after the previous day’s long drive. “In the case of the nucleus, some kind of organic chemistry seems to be mediating powerful magnetic fields—and the Incoming seem to swarm within. I don’t think we’ve really any idea what’s going on in there. We’re actually making more progress with the science of the Venusian biosphere…”

  If the arrival of the Incoming had been astonishing, the evidence of intelligence on Venus, entirely unexpected, was stunning. Nobody had expected the clouds to part right under the orbiting Incoming nucleus—like a deep storm system, kilometres deep in that thick ocean of an atmosphere—and nobody had expected to see the Patch revealed, swirling mist banks where lights flickered tantalisingly, like organised lightning.

  “With retrospect, given the results from the old space probes, we might have guessed there was something on Venus—life, if not intelligent life. There were always unexplained deficiencies and surpluses of various compounds. We think the Venusians live in the clouds, far enough above the red-hot ground that the temperature is low enough for liquid water to exist. They ingest carbon monoxide and excrete sulphur compounds, living off the sun’s ultraviolet.”

  “And they’re smart.”

  “Oh, yes.” The astronomers, already recording the complex signals coming out of the Incoming nucleus, had started to discern rich patterns in the Venusian Patch too. “You can tell how complicated a message is even if you don’t know anything about the content. You measure entropy orders, which are like correlation measures, mapping structures on various scales embedded in the transmission—”

  “You don’t understand any of what you just said, do you?”

  I smiled. “Not a word. But I do know this. Going by their data structures, the Venusians are smarter than us as we are smarter than the chimps. And the Incoming are smarter again.”

  Edith turned to face the sky, the brilliant spark of Venus. “But you say the scientists still believe all this chatter is just—what was your word?”

  “Leakage. Edith, the Incoming and the Venusians aren’t speaking to us. They aren’t even speaking to each other. What we’re observing is a kind of internal dialogue, in each case. The two are talking to themselves, not each other. One theorist briefed the PM that perhaps both these entities are more like hives than human communities.”

  “Hives?” She looked troubled. “Hives are different. They can be purposeful, but they don’t have consciousness as we have it. They aren’t finite as we are; their edges are much more blurred. They aren’t even mortal; individuals can die, but the hives live on.”

  “I wonder what their theology will be, then.”

  “It’s all so strange. These aliens just don’t fit any category we expected, or even that we share. Not mortal, not communicative—and not interested in us. What do they want? What can they want?” Her tone wasn’
t like her; she sounded bewildered to be facing open questions, rather than exhilarated as usual.

  I tried to reassure her. “Maybe your signal will provoke some answers.”

  She checked her watch, and looked up again towards Venus. “Well, we’ve only got five minutes to wait before—” Her eyes widened, and she fell silent.

  I turned to look the way she was, to the east.

  Venus was flaring. Sputtering like a dying candle.

  People started to react. They shouted, pointed, or they just stood there, staring, as I did. I couldn’t move. I felt a deep, awed fear. Then people called, pointing at the big screen in the visitors’ centre, where, it seemed, the space telescopes were returning a very strange set of images indeed.

  Edith’s hand crept into mine. Suddenly I was very glad I hadn’t brought my kids that day.

  I heard angrier shouting, and a police siren, and I smelled burning.

  * * *

  Once I’d finished making my police statement I went back to the hotel in Helston, where Meryl was angry and relieved to see me, and the kids bewildered and vaguely frightened. I couldn’t believe that after all that had happened—the strange events at Venus, the assaults by Shouters on messagers and vice versa, the arson, Edith’s injury, the police crackdown—it was not yet eleven in the morning.

  That same day I took the family back to London, and called in at work. Then, three days after the incident, I got away again and commandeered a ministry car and driver to take me back to Cornwall.