The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Third Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  The strange bloom of painlessness in his back was sending out tendrils into his arms and legs, and the cries of the soldiers had grown louder. Miranda was a tiny speck shrinking against a silver immensity. For a moment he hesitated, experiencing a resurgence of fear; then Miranda’s face materialized in his mind’s eye, and all the emotion he had suppressed for nine days poured through him, washing away the fear. It was a silvery, flawless emotion, and he was giddy with it, light with it; it was like thunder and fire fused into one element and boiling up inside them, and he was overwhelmed by a need to express it, to mold it into a form that would reflect its power and purity. But he was no singer, no poet. There was but a single mode of expression open to him. Hoping he was not too late, that Miranda’s door had not shut forever, Esteban dove into the river, cleaving the image of the full moon; and—his eyes still closed from the shock of the splash—with the last of his mortal strength, he swam hard down after her.

  MICHAEL SWANWICK and WILLIAM GIBSON

  Dogfight

  One of the most popular and respected of all the decade’s new writers, Michael Swanwick made his debut in 1980 with two strong and compelling stories, “The Feast of St. Janis” and “Ginungagap,” both of which were Nebula award finalists that year. Since then, he has gone on to become a frequent contributor to Omni, Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, and Amazing; his stories have also appeared in Penthouse, Universe, High Times, TriQuarterly, and New Dimensions, among other places. His powerful story, “Mummer Kiss” was a Nebula Award finalist in 1981, and his story “The Man Who Met Picasso” was a finalist for the 1982 World Fantasy Award. He has also been a finalist for the John W. Campbell Award. His fast-paced and evocative first novel, In The Drift, was published in 1985 as part of the resurrected Ace Specials line. He is currently at work on a new novel, tentatively entitled Vacuum Flowers. His story “Trojan Horse” was in our Second Annual Collection. Swanwick lives in Philadelphia with his wife Marianne and their young son Sean.

  Almost unknown only a few years ago, William Gibson won the Nebula Award, the Hugo Award, and the Philip K. Dick Award in 1985 for his remarkable first novel Neuromancer—a rise to prominence as fiery and meteoric as any in SF history. Gibson sold his first story in 1977 to the now-defunct semiprozine Unearth, but it was seen by practically no one, and Gibson’s name remained generally unknown until 1981, when he sold to Omni a taut and vivid story called “Johnny Mnemonic”, a Nebula finalist that year. He followed it up in 1982 with another and even more compelling Omni story called “Burning Chrome”, which was also a Nebula finalist … and all at once Gibson was very much A Writer To Watch. Now, with the publication of Neuromancer, he is widely regarded as one of the most important writers to enter the field in many years. Gibson’s stories have also appeared in Universe, Modern Stories, and Interzone. His most recent books are Count Zero, a novel, and Burning Chrome, a collection, both from Arbor House. Born in South Carolina, Gibson now lives in Vancouver, British Columbia, with his wife and family. His story “New Rose Hotel” was in our Second Annual Collection.

  Here Swanwick and Gibson join their considerable talents to give us a tale that reaffirms the ancient wisdom that it isn’t if you win or lose, it’s how you play the goddamned game …

  DOGFIGHT

  Michael Swanwick and William Gibson

  He meant to keep on going, right down to Florida. Work passage on a gunrunner, maybe wind up conscripted into some rat-ass rebel army down in the war zone. Or maybe, with that ticket good as long as he didn’t stop riding, he’d just never get off—Greyhound’s Flying Dutchman. He grinned at his faint reflection in cold, greasy glass, while the downtown lights of Norfolk slid past, the bus swaying on tired shocks as the driver slung it around a final corner. They shuddered to a halt in the terminal lot, concrete lit gray and harsh like a prison exercise yard. But Deke was watching himself starve, maybe in some snowstorm out of Oswego, with his cheek pressed up against that same bus window, and seeing his remains swept out at the next stop by a muttering old man in faded coveralls. One way or the other, he decided, it didn’t mean shit to him. Except his legs seemed to have died already. And the driver called a twenty-minute stopover—Tidewater Station, Virginia. It was an old cinder-block building with two entrances to each rest room, holdover from the previous century.

  Legs like wood, he made a halfhearted attempt at ghosting the notions counter, but the black girl behind it was alert, guarding the sparse contents of the old glass case as though her ass depended on it. Probably does, Deke thought, turning away. Opposite the washrooms, an open doorway offered GAMES, the word flickering feebly in biofluorescent plastic. He could see a crowd of the local kickers clustered around a pool table. Aimless, his boredom following him like a cloud, he stuck his head in. And saw a biplane, wings no longer than his thumb, blossom bright-orange flame. Corkscrewing, trailing smoke, it vanished the instant it struck the green-felt field of the table.

  “Tha’s right, Tiny,” a kicker bellowed, “you take that sumbitch!”

  “Hey,” Deke said. “What’s going on?”

  The nearest kicker was a bean pole with a black mesh Peterbilt cap. “Tiny’s defending the Max,” he said, not taking his eyes from the table.

  “Oh yeah? What’s that?” But even as he asked, he saw it: a blue enamel medal shaped like the Maltese cross, the slogan Pour le Mérite divided among its arms.

  The Blue Max rested on the edge of the table, directly before a vast and perfectly immobile bulk wedged into a fragile-looking chrome tube chair. The man’s khaki workshirt would have hung on Deke like the folds of a sail, but it bulged across that bloated torso so tautly that the tiny buttons threatened to tear away at any instant. Deke thought of Southern troopers he’d seen on his way down; of that weird, gut-heavy endotype balanced on gangly legs that looked like they’d been borrowed from some other body. Tiny might look like that if he stood, but on a larger scale—a forty-inch jeans inseam that would need a woven-steel waistband to support all those pounds of swollen gut. If Tiny were ever to stand at all—for now Deke saw that that shiny frame was actually a wheelchair. There was something disturbingly childlike about the man’s face, an appalling suggestion of youth and even beauty in features buried in fold and jowl. Embarrassed, Deke looked away. The other man, the one standing across the table from Tiny, had bushy sideburns and a thin mouth. He seemed to be trying to push something with his eyes, wrinkles of concentration spreading from the corners.…

  “You dumbshit or what?” The man with the Peterbilt cap turned, catching Deke’s Indo proleboy denims, the brass chains at his wrists, for the first time. “Why don’t you get your ass lost, fucker. Nobody wants your kind in here.” He turned back to the dogfight.

  Bets were being made, being covered. The kickers were producing the hard stuff, the old stuff, liberty-headed dollars and Roosevelt dimes from the stamp-and-coin stores, while more cautious betters slapped down antique paper dollars laminated in clear plastic. Through the haze came a trio of red planes, flying in formation. Fokker D VIIs. The room fell silent. The Fokkers banked majestically under the solar orb of a two-hundred-watt bulb.

  The blue Spad dove out of nowhere. Two more plunged from the shadowy ceiling, following closely. The kickers swore, and one chuckled. The formation broke wildly. One Fokker dove almost to the felt, without losing the Spad on its tail. Furiously, it zigged and zagged across the green flatlands but to no avail. At last it pulled up, the enemy hard after it, too steeply—and stalled, too low to pull out in time.

  A stack of silver dimes was scooped up.

  The Fokkers were outnumbered now. One had two Spads on its tail. A needle-spray of tracers tore past its cockpit. The Fokker slip-turned right, banked into an Immelmann, and was behind one of its pursuers. It fired, and the biplane fell, tumbling.

  “Way to go, Tiny!” The kickers closed in around the table.

  Deke was frozen with wonder. It felt like being born all over again.

  * * *

 
Frank’s Truck Stop was two miles out of town on the Commercial Vehicles Only route. Deke had tagged it, out of idle habit, from the bus on the way in. Now he walked back between the traffic and the concrete crash-guards. Articulated trucks went slamming past, big eight-segmented jobs, the wash of air each time threatening to blast him over. CVO stops were easy makes. When he sauntered into Frank’s, there was nobody to doubt that he’d come in off a big rig, and he was able to browse the gift shop as slowly as he liked. The wire rack with the projective wetware wafers was located btween a stack of Korean cowboy shirts and a display for Fuzz Buster mudguards. A pair of Oriental dragons twisted in the air over the rack, either fighting or fucking, he couldn’t tell which. The game he wanted was there: a wafer labeled SPADS&FOKKERS. It took him three seconds to boost it and less time to slide the magnet—which the cops in DC hadn’t even bothered to confiscate—across the universal security strip.

  On the way out, he lifted two programming units and a little Batang facilitator-remote that looked like an antique hearing aid.

  * * *

  He chose a highstack at random and fed the rental agent the line he’d used since his welfare rights were yanked. Nobody ever checked up; the state just counted occupied rooms and paid.

  The cubicle smelled faintly of urine, and someone had scrawled Hard Anarchy Liberation Front slogans across the walls. Deke kicked the trash out of a corner, sat down, back to the wall, and ripped open the wafer pack.

  There was a folded instruction sheet with diagrams of loops, rolls and Immelmanns, a tube of saline paste, and a computer list of operational specs. And the wafer itself, white plastic with a blue biplane and logo on one side, red on the other. He turned it over and over in his hand: SPADS&FOKKERS, FOKKERS&SPADS. Red or blue. He fitted the Batang behind his ear, after coating the inductor surface with paste, jacked its fiberoptic ribbon into the programmer, and plugged the programmer into the wall current. Then he slid the wafer into the programmer. It was a cheap set, Indonesian, and the base of his skull buzzed uncomfortably as the program ran. But when it was done, a sky-blue Spad darted restlessly through the air a few inches from his face. It almost glowed, it was so real. It had the strange inner life that fanatically detailed museum-grade models often have, but it took all of his concentration to keep it in existence. If his attention wavered at all, it lost focus, fuzzing into a pathetic blur.

  He practiced until the battery in the earset died, then slumped against the wall and fell asleep. He dreamed of flying, in a universe that consisted entirely of white clouds and blue sky, with no up and down, and never a green field to crash into.

  * * *

  He woke to a rancid smell of frying krill-cakes and winced with hunger. No cash, either. Well, there were plenty of student types in the stack. Bound to be one who’d like to score a programming unit. He hit the hall with the boosted spare. Not far down was a door with a poster on it: THERE’S A HELL OF A GOOD UNIVERSE NEXT DOOR. Under that was a starscape with a cluster of multicolored pills, torn from an ad for some pharmaceutical company, pasted over an inspirational shot of the “space colony” that had been under construction since before he was born. LET’S GO, the poster said, beneath the collaged hypnotics.

  He knocked. The door opened, security slides stopping it at a two-inch slice of girl-face. “Yeah?”

  “You’re going to think this is stolen.” He passed the programmer from hand to hand. “I mean because it’s new, a virtual cherry, and the bar code’s still on it. But listen, I’m not gonna argue the point. No. I’m gonna let you have it for only like half of what you’d pay anywhere else.”

  “Hey, wow, really, no kidding?” The visible fraction of mouth twisted into a strange smile. She extended her hand, palm up, a loose fist. Level with his chin. “Lookahere!”

  There was a hole in her hand, a black tunnel that ran right up her arm. Two small, red lights. Rat’s eyes. They scurried toward him—growing, gleaming. Something gray streaked forward and leaped for his face.

  He screamed, throwing his hands up to ward it off. Legs twisting, he fell, the programmer shattering under him.

  Silicate shards skittered as he thrashed, clutching his head. Where it hurt, it hurt—it hurt very badly indeed.

  “Oh my God!” Slides unsnapped, and the girl was hovering over him. “Here, listen, come on.” She dangled a blue hand towel. “Grab onto this and I’ll pull you up.”

  He looked at her through a wash of tears. Student. That fed look, the oversized sweatshirt, teeth so straight and white they could be used as a credit reference. A thin gold chain around one ankle (fuzzed, he saw, with baby-fine hair). Choppy Japanese haircut. Money. “That sucker was gonna be my dinner,” he said ruefully. He took hold of the towel and let her pull him up.

  She smiled but skittishly backed away from him. “Let me make it up to you,” she said. “You want some food? It was only a projection, okay?”

  He followed her in, wary as an animal entering a trap.

  “Holy shit,” Deke said, “this is real cheese.…”He was sitting on a gutsprung sofa, wedged between a four-foot teddy bear and a loose stack of floppies. The room was ankle deep in books and clothes and papers. But the food she magicked up … Gouda cheese and tinned beef and honest-to-God greenhouse wheat wafers … was straight out of the Arabian Nights.

  “Hey,” she said. “We know how to treat a proleboy right, huh?” Her name was Nance Bettendorf. She was seventeen. Both her parents had jobs—greedy buggers—and she was an engineering major at William and Mary. She got top marks except in English. “I guess you must really have a thing about rats. You got some kind of phobia about rats?”

  He glanced sidelong at her bed. You couldn’t see it, really, it was just a swell in the ground cover. “It’s not like that. It just reminded me of something else, is all.”

  “Like what?” She squatted in front of him, the big shirt riding high up one smooth thigh.

  “Well … did you ever see the—” his voice involuntarily rose and rushed past the words—“Washington Monument? Like at night? It’s got these two little … red lights on top, aviation markers or something, and I, and I…” He started to shake.

  “You’re afraid of the Washington Monument?” Nance whooped and rolled over with laughter, long tanned legs kicking. She was wearing crimson bikini panties.

  “I would rather die than look at it again,” he said levelly.

  She stopped laughing then, sat up, studied his face. White, even teeth worried at her lower lip, like she was dragging up something she didn’t want to think about. At last she ventured, “Brainlock?”

  “Yeah,” he said bitterly. “They told me I’d never go back to DC. And then the fuckers laughed.”

  “What did they get you for?”

  “I’m a thief.” He wasn’t about to tell her that the actual charge was career shoplifting.

  * * *

  “Lotta old computer hacks spent their lives programming machines. And you know what? The human brain is not a goddamn bit like a machine, no way. They just don’t program the same.” Deke knew this shrill desperate rap, this long, circular jive that the lonely string out to the rare listener; knew it from a hundred cold and empty nights spent in the company of strangers. Nance was lost in it, and Deke, nodding and yawning, wondered if he’d even be able to stay awake when they finally hit that bed of hers.

  “I built that projection I hit you with myself,” she said, hugging her knees up beneath her chin. “It’s for muggers, you know? I just happened to have it on me, and I threw it at you ‘cause I thought it was so funny, you trying to sell me that shit little Indojavanese programmer.” She hunched forward and held out her hand again. “Look here.” Deke cringed. “No, no, it’s okay, I swear it, this is different.” She opened her hand.

  A single, blue flame danced there, perfect and everchanging. “Look at that,” she marveled. “Just look. I programmed that. It’s not some diddly little seven-image job either. It’s a continous two-hour look, seven thousand two hun
dred seconds, never the same twice, each instant as individual as a fucking snowflake!”

  The flame’s core was glacial crystal, shards and facets flashing up, twisting and gone, leaving behind near-subliminal images so bright and sharp that they cut the eye. Deke winced. People mostly. Pretty little naked people, fucking. “How the hell did you do that?”

  She rose, bare feet slipping on slick magazines, and melodramatically swept folds of loose printout from a raw plywood shelf. He saw a neat row of small consoles, austere and expensive looking. Custom work. “This is the real stuff I got here. Image facilitator. Here’s my fast-wipe module. This is a brain-map one-to-one function analyzer.” She sang off the names like a litany. “Quantum flicker stabilizer. Program splicer. An image assembler…”

  “You need all that to make one little flame?”

  “You betcha. This is all state of the art, professional projective wetware gear. It’s years ahead of anything you’ve seen.”

  “Hey,” he said, “you know anything about SPADS&FOKKERS?”

  She laughed. And then, because he sensed the time was right, he reached out to take her hand.

  “Don’t you touch me, motherfuck, don’t you ever touch me!” Nance screamed, and her head slammed against the wall as she recoiled, white and shaking with terror.

  “Okay!” He threw up his hands. “Okay! I’m nowhere near you. Okay?”

  She cowered from him. Her eyes were round and unblinking; tears built up at the corners, rolled down ashen cheeks. Finally, she shook her head. “Hey. Deke. Sorry. I should’ve told you.”