The Year's Best Science Fiction: Twenty-Third Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  "Only two of the subjects have strong family ties. Three of the subjects, both parents are deceased or out of state. Four of the subjects are from dysfunctional environments. The last three, the information is incomplete. But you already know all this. It was in the files you read."

  "But not correlated like this. This is all—what was that phrase that Eakins used before? Fuzzy logic? This is all fuzzy logic."

  "No. This isn't 'fuzzy logic' Not as we use the term today. But I understand what you're getting at. You had no way to quantify the information. You could have a feeling, a sense, a hunch, but you had no baseline against which to measure the data, because neither the information nor the information-processing capabilities existed in your time."

  "Nice. Thanks." I thought for a moment. "Have I missed anything? Is there anything else I need to know about these fellows?"

  "There are some interesting details and sidebars, yes. But you have surveyed most of the essential data."

  "Thank you, Brownie." I fell back onto the bed. The pillow arranged itself under my head. Spooky. I stared at the ceiling, thinking. Too excited now to fall asleep. The bed began to pulse, a gentle wave-like motion. Almost like riding in a womb. Nice. Seductive. I let myself relax-In the morning, the display showed crisp orange dunes, a brilliantly blue sky, and the first rays of light etching sideways across the empty sand. An interesting image to wake up to. I wondered who or what chose the images and on what basis.

  My own clothes were not in the closet. I started to pick something off a rack, then stopped. "Brownie? What should I wear?"

  Several items slid forward immediately, offering themselves. I rejected the skirts, kilts, whatever they were. And the flowery shirts too. Picked out clothes that looked as close to normal —my normal —as I could find. The underwear—I rolled my eyes and prayed I wouldn't be hit by a truck. Very unlikely. I probably wasn't getting out of this apartment any time soon. Did they even have trucks anymore?

  Neither the shirt nor the pants had buttons or zippers or any kind of fasteners that I could identify, they just sort of fastened themselves. Magnets or something. Except magnets don't automatically adjust themselves. I played with the shirt for a bit, opening and closing it, but I couldn't see evidence of any visible mechanism.

  I walked over to the balcony and stared down at the streets. Looking for trucks? Didn't see any, or couldn't tell. Some things wouldn't even resolve. Either there was something wrong with the way they reflected light, or I just didn't know what I was seeing. And there were a lot of those 3-D illusions floating around too. Were some of them on moving vehicles? That didn't seem safe.

  "If you're thinking about jumping, you can't. The balconies all have scramble-nets."

  "Thank you. Brownie. And no. I'm not thinking about jumping."

  "Mr. Eakins is waiting for you in the dining room. Breakfast is on the table."

  There was a counter with covered serving trays. I found scrambled eggs, sausages, toast, jelly, tomato juice, an assortment of fresh fruit, including several varieties I didn't recognize, and something that could have been ham — if ham was Day-Glo pink. Brownie filled a plate for me. I sat down opposite Eakins while Brownie poured juice and coffee.

  "What do you think of the food?" Eakins asked.

  "It's pretty good," I admitted. "But what is this?" I held up my fork.

  "It's ham," he said. "Ham cells layered and grown on a collagen web. No animals were harmed in its manufacture. And it's a lot healthier than the meat of your time. Did you know that one of the causes of cancer was the occasional transfer of DNA— genetic material—from ingested flesh? This protein has been gene-stripped. Enjoy."

  "Why is it pink?"

  "Because some people like it pink. You can also have it green, if you want. Children like that. The fruit is banana, papaya, mango, kiwi, pineapple, strawberry, ly-chee, and China melon. I told Brownie to keep things simple, I should have been more specific. This is his idea of simple."

  "Stop it. You're showing off."

  Eakins put his fork down. "Okay, you caught me on that one. Yes, I'm showing off."

  "I've cracked the case."

  "Really?" He sipped his coffee. "You're certainly sure of yourself this morning."

  "The young men—they don't fit very well in their own time, do they?"

  Eakins snorted. "Who does? You never fit very well in any year we sent you to."

  "No, it's more than that. They're outcasts, dreamers, nerds, and sissies. They have enormous potential, but there's no place for any of them to realize it—not in 1967. It's really a barbaric year, isn't it?"

  "Not the worst," Eakins admitted, holding his coffee mug between his two hands, as if to warm them. "There's still a considerable amount of hope and idealism. But that'll get stamped out quickly enough. You want a shitty year. Wait for '68 or '69 or 70; '69 has three ups and five downs, a goddamn roller coaster. 74 is pretty bad too, but that's all down, and the up at the end isn't enough. 79 is shitty. Was never too fond of'80 either. 2001 was pretty grim. But 2011 was the worst. 2014… I dunno, we could argue about that one — "

  I ignored the roll call of future history. He was trying to distract me. Trying to get me to ask. "They're not being murdered," I said. "There's no killer. You're picking them up. It's a talent hunt."

  He put his coffee cup down. "Took you fucking long enough to figure it out."

  "You kidnap them."

  "We harvest them. And it's voluntary. We show them the opportunity and invite them to step forward in time."

  "But you only choose those who will accept—?"

  Eakins nodded. "Our psychometrics are good. We don't go in with less than 90 percent confidence in the outcome. We don't want to start any urban legends about mysterious men in black."

  "I think those stories have already started. Something to do with UFO's."

  "Yeah, we know."

  "Okay, so you recruit these boys. Then what?"

  "We move them up a bit. Not too much. Not as far as we've brought you. We don't want to induce temporal displacement trauma. We relocate them to a situation where they have access to a lot more possibility. By the way, do you want to meet Jeremy Weiss? He has the apartment across from here. He's just turned fifty-seven; he and Steve are celebrating their twenty-second anniversary this week. They were married in Boston, May of 2004, the first week it was legal. Weiss worked on — never mind, I can't tell you that. But it was big." Eakins wiped his mouth with his napkin. "So? Is that it? Is that the case?"

  "No. There's more."

  "I'm listening."

  "All of this—you're not taking me out of the game. You said I was on probation. Well, this is a test. This is my final exam, isn't it?"

  Eakins raised an eyebrow. "Interesting thesis. Why do you think this is a test?"

  "Because if you wanted to get me off the case, if all you wanted to do was keep me from interfering with the disappearances, all you had to do was bump me up to 1975 and leave me there."

  "You could have quake-hopped back."

  "Maybe. But not easily. Not without a good map. All right, bump me up to 1980 or '85. But by your own calculations, you use up a year of subjective time for every three years of down-hopping. Twenty years away takes me out of the tank, but it doesn't incapacitate me. But bringing me this far forward—you made the point last night. I'm so far out of my time that I'm a cultural invalid, requiring round-the-clock care. You didn't do that as a mistake, you did it on purpose. Therefore, what's the purpose? The way I see it, it's about me—there's no other benefit for you —so this has to be a test."

  Eakins nodded, mildly impressed. "See, that's your skill. You can ask the next question. That's why you're a good operative."

  "You didn't answer my question."

  "Let's say you haven't finished the test."

  "There's more?"

  "Oh, there's a lot more. We're just warming up."

  "All right. Look. I'm no good to you here. We both know that. But I can go back and be
a lot more useful."

  "Useful doing what?"

  "Doing whatever—whatever it is that needs doing."

  "And what is it you think we need doing?"

  "Errands. You know the kind I mean. The kind you hired me for. The jobs that we don't talk about."

  "And you think that we want you for those kinds of jobs… ?"

  "It's the obvious answer, isn't it?"

  "No. Not all the answers are obvious."

  "I'm a good operative. I've proven it. With some of this technology, I could be an even better one. You could give me micro-cameras and super-film and night-vision goggles… whatever you think I need. It's not like I'm asking for a computer or something impossible. How big are computers now anyway? Do they fill whole city blocks, or what?"

  Eakins laughed. "This is what I mean about not understanding socio-tectonic shifts?"

  "Eh?

  "We could give you a computer that fits inside a matchbox."

  "You're joking—"

  "No, I'm not. We can print circuits really small. We etch them on diamond wafers with gamma rays."

  "They must be expensive — "

  "Lunch at McDonald's is expensive. Computers are cheap. We print them like photographs. Three dollars a copy."

  "Be damned." Stopped to shake my head. Turned around to look at Brownie. "Is that what's inside your head?"

  "Primary sensory processing is in my head. Logic processing is inside my chest.

  Optical connects for near-instantaneous reflexes. My fuel cells are in my pelvis for a lower center-of-gravity. I can show you a schematic — "

  I held up a hand. "Thanks." Turned back to Eakins. "Okay, I believe you. But it still doesn't change my point. There are things you can't do in '67 that I can do for you. So my question is, what do I have to do? To go back? What are my real options?"

  Eakins grinned. "How about a lobotomy?"

  "Eh?"

  "No, not a real lobotomy. That's just the slang term for a general reorientation of certain aggressive traits. That business with Matty's dad, for instance, that wasn't too smart. It was counterproductive."

  "He had no right beating that kid — "

  "No, he didn't, but do you think breaking his nose and giving him a myocardial infarction produced any useful result?"

  "It'll stop him from doing it again."

  "There are other ways, better ways. Do you want to learn?"

  Considered it. Nodded.

  Eakins shook his head. "I'm not convinced."

  "What are you looking for? What is it I didn't say?"

  "I can't tell you that. That's the part you're going to have to work out for yourself."

  "You're still testing me."

  "I still haven't found what I'm looking for. Do you want to keep going?"

  I sank back in my chair. Not happy. Looked away. Scratched my nose. Looked back. Eakins sat dispassionately. No help there.

  "I hate these kinds of conversations. Did I tell you I once punched out a shrink?"

  "No. But we already knew that about you."

  Turned my attention back to my plate, picked at the fruit. Pushed some stuff around that I didn't recognize. There was too much here, too much to eat, too much to swallow, too much to digest. It was overwhelming.

  What I wanted was to go home.

  "Okay," I said. "Tell me about Matty. Why is he irrelevant? Why isn't he on the list?"

  "Because he didn't fit the profile. That's one of the reasons you didn't spot the pattern earlier. You kept trying to include him."

  "But he still disappeared."

  "He didn't disappear."

  "Yes, he did — "

  "He committed suicide."

  "He what—?" I came up out of my chair, angry—a cold fear rising in my gut.

  "About three weeks after we picked you up. You didn't come back. The rent was due. He had no place to go. He panicked. He was sure you had abandoned him. He was in a state of irreparable despair."

  "No. Wait a minute. He didn't. He couldn't have. Or it would have been in the file Georgia gave me."

  "Georgia didn't know. Nobody knew. His body won't be found until 1987. They won't be able to ID it until twenty years later, they'll finally do a cold-case DNA match. They'll match it through his mother's autopsy."

  I started for the door, stopped myself, turned around. "I have to go back. I have to — "

  "Come back here, Mike. Sit down. Finish your breakfast. There's plenty of time. If we choose to, we can put you back the exact same moment you left. Minus the Mustang though. We need that to cover the costs of this operation."

  "That's fine. I can get another car. Just send me back. Please — "

  "You haven't passed the test yet."

  "Look. I'll do anything—"

  "Anything?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "Because I need to save that kid's life."

  "Why? Why is that boy important to you?"

  "Because he's a human being. And he can hurt. And if I can do anything to stop some of that hurt—"

  "That's not enough reason, Mike. It's an almost-enough reason."

  " — I care about him, goddamnit!" The first person I've cared about since the land mine —

  "You care about him?"

  "Yes!"

  "How much? How much do you care about him?"

  "As much as it takes to save him! Why are you playing this game with me?"

  "It's not a game, Mike. It's the last part of the test!"

  I sat.

  Several centuries of silence passed.

  "This is about how much I care… ?"

  Eakins nodded.

  "About Matty?"

  "About Matty, yes. And… a little bit more than that. But let's stay focused on Matty. He's the key."

  "Okay. Look. Forget about me. Do with me whatever you want, whatever you think is appropriate. But that kid deserves a chance too. I don't know his IQ. Maybe he isn't a genius. But he hurts just as much. Maybe more. And if you can do something—"

  "We can't save them all — "

  "We can save this one. I can save him."

  "Do you love him?"

  "What does love have to do with it—?"

  "Everything."

  "I'm not—that way."

  "What way? You can't even say the word."

  "Queer. There. Happy?"

  "Would you be queer if you could?"

  "Huh?"

  Now it was Eakins turn to look annoyed. "Remember that long list of things I rattled off yesterday?"

  "Yes. No. Some of it."

  "There was one word I didn't give you. Trans-human."

  "Trans-human."

  "Right."

  "What does it mean?"

  "It means —this week—the transitional stage between human and what comes next."

  "What comes next?"

  "We don't know. We're still inventing it. We won't know until afterwards."

  "And being queer is part of it?"

  "Yes. And so is being black. And female. And body-modded. And everything else." Eakins leaned forward intensely. "Your body is here in 2032, but your head is still stuck in 1967. If we're going to do anything with you, we have to get your head unstuck. Listen to me. In this age of designer genders, liquid orientation, body-mods, and all the other experiments in human identity, nobody fucking cares anymore about who's doing what and with which and to whom. It's the stupidest thing in the world to worry about, what's happening in someone else's bedroom, especially if there's nothing happening in yours. The past was barbaric, the future doesn't have to be. You want meaning? Here's meaning. Life is too short for bullshit. Life is about what happens in the space between two people —and how much joy you can create for each other. Got that? Good. End of sermon."

  "And that's trans-human — ?"

  "That's one of the side effects. Life isn't about the lines we draw to separate ourselves from each other—it's about the lines we can draw that connect us. The biggest social change
of the last fifty years is that even though we still haven't figured out how to get into each other's heads, we're learning how to get into each other's experience so we can have a common ground of being as a civilized society."

  "It sounds like a load of psycho-bullshit to me."

  "I wasn't asking for an opinion. I was giving you information that could be useful to you. You're the one who wants to go back and save Matty. I'm telling you how—"

  "And this is part of it—?"

  "It could be. It's this part. The psychometric match is good. If you want to marry him, we'll go get him right now."

  "I'm missing something here — ?"

  "You're missing everything. Start with this. Our charter limits what we can do. Yes, we have a charter. A mission statement. A commitment to a set of values."

  "Who are you anyway? Some kind of time police?"

  "You should have asked that one at the beginning. No, we're not police. We're independent agents."

  "Time vigilantes?"

  "Time ravelers. The real ravelers, not that pissy little stuff you were doing. What we have is too important to be entrusted to any government or any political movement. Who we are is a commitment to—well, that's part of the test. Figuring out the commitment. Once you figure out the commitment, the rest is obvious."

  "Okay. So, right now, I'm committed to saving Matty, and you say—?"

  "We can do that—under our domestic partner plan. We protect the partners of our operatives. We don't extend that coverage to one-night stands."

  "He's not a one-night stand. He's — "

  "He's what?"

  "He's a kid who deserves a chance."

  "So give him the chance." Eakins pushed a pillbox across the table at me. I hadn't noticed it until now.

  Picked it up. Opened it. Two blue pills. "What will this do?"

  "It'll get you a toaster oven."

  "Huh?"

  "It will shift your sexual orientation. It takes a few weeks. It reorganizes your brain chemistry, rechannels a complex network of pathways, and ultimately expands your repertoire of sexual responsiveness so that same-sex attractions can overwhelm inhibitions, programming, and even hard-wiring. You take one pill, you find new territories in your emotional landscape. You give the other to Matty and it creates a personal pheromonal linkage; the two of you will become aligned. Tuned to each other. You'll bond. It could be intense."