The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Third Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  “Come on, hold on, we’re coming down!”

  “There’s a wheelchair in the water—”

  “He must be a cripple.”

  There were several voices, some of them women, but it was two strong men who reached him, splashing their feet in the water. They hooked him under the arms and carried him to the top.

  “Can you stand up? Are you all right? Can you stand?”

  Carpenter strained to squeeze out the word: “No.”

  The older woman took command. “He’s got palsy, as any fool can see. Go back down there and get his wheelchair, Tom, no sense in making him wait till they can get him another one, go on down! It’s not that bad down there, the flood isn’t here yet!” Her voice was crisp and clear, perfect speech, almost foreign it was so precise. She and the young woman carried him to the truck. It was a big old flatbed truck from the old days, and on its back was a canvas-covered heap of odd shapes. On the canvas Carpenter read the words SWEETWATER’S MIRACLE PAGEANT. Traveling show people, then, racing for town to get out of the rain, and through some miracle they had heard his call.

  “Your poor arms,” said the young woman, wiping off grit and sand that had sliced his elbows. “Did you climb that far out of there with just your arms?”

  The young men came out of the arroyo muddy and cursing, but they had the wheelchair. They tied it quickly to the back of the truck; one of the men found the computer, too, and took it inside the cab. It was designed to be rugged, and to Carpenter’s relief it still worked.

  “Thank you,” said his mechanical voice.

  “I told them I heard something, and they said I was crazy,” said the old woman. “You live in Reefrock?”

  “Yes,” said his voice.

  “Amazing what those old machines can still do, even after being dumped out there in the rain,” said the old woman. “Well, you came close to death, there, but you’re all right; it’s the best we can ask for. We’ll take you to the doctor.”

  “Just take me home. Please.”

  So they did, but insisted on helping him bathe and fixing him dinner. The rain was coming down in sheets when they were done. “All I have is a floor,” he said, “but you can stay.”

  “Better than trying to pitch the tents in this.” So they stayed the night.

  Carpenter’s arms ached too badly for him to sleep, even though he was exhausted. He lay awake thinking of the current pulling him, imagining what would have happened to him, how far he might have gone downstream before drowning, where his body might have ended up. Caught in a snag somewhere, dangling on some branch or rock as the water went down and left his slack body to dry in the sun. Far out in the desert somewhere, maybe. Or perhaps the floodwater might have carried him all the way to the Colorado and tumbled him head over heels down the rapids, through the canyons, past the ruins of the old dams, and finally into the Gulf of California. He’s pass through Navaho territory then, and the Hopi Protectorate, and into areas that the Chihuahua claimed and threatened to go to war to keep. He’d see more of the world than he had seen in his life.

  I saw more of the world tonight, he thought, than I had ever thought to see. I saw death and how much I feared it.

  And he looked into himself, wondering how much he had changed.

  Late in the morning, when he finally awoke, the pageant people were gone. They had a show, of course, and had to do some kind of parade to let people know. School would let out early so they could put on the show without having to waste power on lights. There’d be no school this afternoon. But what about his morning classes? There must have been some question when he didn’t show up; someone would have called, and if he didn’t answer the phone, someone would have come by. Maybe the show people had still been here when they came. The word would have spread through school that he was still alive.

  He tried to imagine LaVon and Kippie and Pope hearing that Mr. Machine, Mr. Bug, Mr. Carpenter was still alive. They’d be afraid, of course. Maybe defiant. Maybe they had even confessed. No, not that. LaVon would keep them quiet. Try to think of a way out. Maybe even plan an escape, though finding a place to go that wasn’t under Utah authority would be a problem.

  What am I doing? Trying to plan how my enemies can escape retribution? I should call the marshals again and tell them what happened. If someone hasn’t called them already.

  His wheelchair waited by his bed. The show people had shined it up for him, got rid of all the muck. Even straightened the computer mounts and tied the computer on; jury-rigged, but it would do. Would the motor run, after being under water? He saw that they had even changed batteries and had the old one set aside. They were good people. Not at all what the stories said about show gypsies. Though there was no natural law that people who help cripples can’t also seduce all the young girls in the village.

  His arms hurt and his left arm was weak and trembly, but he managed to get into the chair. The pain brought back yesterday. I’m alive today, and yet today doesn’t feel any different from last week, when I was also alive. Being on the brink of death wasn’t enough; the only transformation is to die.

  He ate lunch becuase it was nearly noon. Eldon Finch came by to see him, along with the sheriff. “I’m the new bishop,” said Eldon.

  “Didn’t waste any time,” said Carpenter.

  “I gotta tell you, Brother Carpenter, things are in a tizzy today. Yesterday, too, of course, what with the avenging angels dropping out of the sky and taking away people we all trusted. There’s some says you shouldn’t’ve told, and some says you did right, and some ain’t sayin’ nothin’ ’cause they’re afraid somethin’ll get told on them. Ugly times, ugly times, when folks steal from their neighbors.”

  Sheriff Budd finally spoke up. “Almost as ugly as tryin’ to drownd ’em.”

  The bishop nodded. “’Course you know the reason we come, Sheriff Budd and me, we come to find out who done it.”

  “Done what?”

  “Plunked you down that wash. You aren’t gonna tell me you drove that little wheelie chair of yours out there past the fringe. What, was you speedin’ so fast you lost control and spun out? Give me peace of heart, Brother Carpenter, give me trust.” The bishop and the sheriff both laughed at that. Quite a joke.

  Now’s the time, thought Carpenter. Name the names. The motive will be clear, justice will be done. They put you through the worst hell of your life, they made you cry out for help, they taught you the taste of death. Now even things up.

  But he didn’t key their names into the computer. He thought of Kippie’s mother crying at the door. When the crying stopped, there’d be years ahead. They were a long way from proving out their land. Kippie was through with school, he’d never go on, never get out. The adult burden was on those boys now, years too young. Should their families suffer even more, with another generation gone to prison? Carpenter had nothing to gain, and many who were guiltless stood to lose to omuch.

  “Brother Carpenter,” said Sheriff Budd. “Who was it?”

  He keyed in his answer. “I didn’t get a look at them.”

  “Their voices, didn’t you know them?”

  “No.”

  The bishop looked steadily at him. “They tried to kill you, Brother Carpenter. That’s no joke. You like to died, if those show people hadn’t happened by. And I have my own ideas who it was, seein’ who had reason to hate you unto death yesterday.”

  “As you said. A lot of people think an outsider like me should have kept his nose out of Reefrock’s business.”

  The bishop frowned at him. “You scared they’ll try again?”

  “No.”

  “Nothin’ I can do,” said the sheriff. “I think you’re a damn fool, Brother Carpenter, but nothin’ I can do if you don’t even care.”

  “Thanks for coming by.”

  He didn’t go to church Sunday. But on Monday he went to school, same time as usual. And there were LaVon and Kippie and Pope, right in their places. But not the same as usual. The wisecracks were over. When he ca
lled on them, they answered if they could and didn’t if they couldn’t. When he looked at them, they looked away.

  He didn’t know if it was shame or fear that he might someday tell; he didn’t care. The mark was on them. They would marry someday, go out into even newer lands just behind the ever-advancing fringe, have babies, work until their bodies were exhausted, and then drop into a grave. But they’d remember that one day they had left a cripple to die. He had no idea what it would mean to them, but they would remember.

  Within a few weeks LaVon and Kippie were out of school; with their fathers gone, there was too much fieldwork and school was a luxury their families couldn’t afford for them. Pope had an older brother still at home, so he stayed out the year.

  One time Pope almost talked to him. It was a windy day that spattered sand against the classroom window, and the storm coming out of the south looked to be a nasty one. When class was over, most of the kids ducked their heads and rushed outside, hurrying to get home before the downpour began. A few stayed, though, to talk with Carpenter about this and that. When the last one left, Carpenter saw that Pope was still there. His pencil was hovering over a piece of paper. He looked up at Carpenter, then set the pencil down, picked up his books, started for the door. He paused for a moment with his hand on the doorknob. Carpenter waited for him to speak. But the boy only opened the door and went on out.

  Carpenter rolled over to the door and watched him as he walked away. The wind caught at his jacket. Like a kite, thought Carpenter, it’s lifting him along.

  But it wasn’t true. The boy didn’t rise and fly. And now Carpenter saw the wind like a current down the village street, sweeping Pope away. All the bodies in the world, caught in that same current, that same wind, blown down the same rivers, the same streets, and finally coming to rest on some snag, through some door, in some grave, God knows where or why.

  —Sycamore Hill,

  January, 1985

  KAREN JOY FOWLER

  The Lake Was Full Of Artificial Things

  Karen Joy Fowler published her first story in 1985, and spent the rest of the year establishing an impressive reputation in a very short time indeed. She has become a frequent contributor to Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, and has also sold to Writers of the Future, In The Fields of Fire, and Helicon Nine. Her poetry has appeared in The Ohio Journal, The California Quarterly, and in other journals. She lives in Davis, California, has two children, did her graduate work in North Asian politics, and occasionally teaches ballet.

  Here she suggests that what’s between people is not always easily settled … even by death.

  THE LAKE WAS FULL OF ARTIFICIAL THINGS

  Karen Joy Fowler

  Daniel was older than Miranda had expected. In 1970, when they had said good-bye, he had been twenty-two. Two years later he was dead, but now, approaching her with the bouncing walk which had suited his personality so well, he appeared as a middle-aged man and quite gray, though solid and muscular. She noted with relief that he was smiling. “Randy!” he said. He laughed delightedly. “You look wonderful.”

  Miranda glanced down at herself, wondering what, in fact, she did look like or if she had any form at all. She saw the flesh of her arms firm again and the skin smooth and tight. So she was the twenty-year old. Isn’t that odd, she thought, turning her hands palms up to examine them. Then Daniel reached her. The sun was bright in the sky behind him, obscuring his face, giving him a halo. He put his arms around her. I feel him, she thought in astonishment. I smell him. She breathed in slowly. “Hello, Daniel,” she said.

  He squeezed her slightly, then dropped his arms and looked around. Miranda looked outward, too. They were on the college campus. Surely this was not the setting she would have chosen. It unsettled her, as if she had been sent backward in time and gifted with prescience, but remained powerless to make any changes, was doomed to see it all again, moving to its inevitable conclusion. Daniel, however, seemed pleased.

  He pointed off to the right. “There’s the creek,” he said, and suddenly she could hear it. “Memories there, right?” and she remembered lying beneath him on the grass by the water. She put her hands on his shoulders now; his clothes were rough against her palms and military—like his hair. He gestured to the round brick building behind her. “Tollman Hall,” he said. “Am I right? God, this is great, Randy. I remember everything. Total recall. I had Physics 10 there with Dr. Fielding. Physics for nonmajors. I couldn’t manage my vectors and I got a B.” He laughed again, throwing an arm around Miranda. “It’s great to be back.”

  They began to walk together toward the center of campus, slow walking with no destination, designed for conversation. They were all alone, Miranda noticed. The campus was deserted, then suddenly it wasn’t. Students appeared on the pathways. Long-hairs with headbands and straights with slide rules. Just what she remembered. “Tell me what everyone’s been doing,” Daniel said. “It’s been what? Thirty years? Don’t leave out a thing.”

  Miranda stooped and picked a small daisy out of the grass. She twirled it absentmindedly in her fingers. It left a green stain on her thumb. Daniel stopped walking and waited beside her. “Well,” Miranda said. “I’ve lost touch with most of them. Gail got a job on Le Monde. She went to Germany for the re-unification. I heard she was living there. The antinuclear movement was her permanent beat. She could still be there, I suppose.”

  “So she’s still a radical,” said Daniel. “What stamina.”

  “Margaret bought a bakery in San Francisco. Sixties cuisine. Whole grains. Tofu brownies. Heaviest cookies west of the Rockies. We’re in the same cable chapter so I keep up with her better. I saw her last marriage on T.V. She’s been married three times now, every one a loser.”

  “What about Allen?” Daniel asked.

  “Allen,” repeated Miranda. “Well, Allen had a promising career in jogging shoes. He was making great strides.” She glanced at Daniel’s face. “Sorry,” she said. “Allen always brought out the worst in me. He lost his father in an air collision over Kennedy. Sued the airline and discovered he never had to work again. In short, Allen is rich. Last I heard, and this was maybe twenty years ago, he was headed to the Philippines to buy himself a submissive bride.” She saw Daniel smile, the lines in his face deepening with his expression. “Oh, you’d like to blame me for Allen, wouldn’t you?” she said. “But it wouldn’t be fair. I dated him maybe three times, tops.” Miranda shook her head. “Such an enthusiastic participant in the sexual revolution. And then it all turned to women’s liberation on him. Poor Allen. We can only hope his tiny wife divorced him and won a large settlement when you could still get alimony.”

  Daniel moved closer to her and they began to walk again, passing under the shade of a redwood grove. The grass changed to needles under their feet. “You needn’t be so hard on Allen,” he said. “I never minded about him. I always knew you loved me.”

  “Did you?” asked Miranda anxiously. She looked at her feet, afraid to examine Daniel’s face. My god, she was wearing moccasins. Had she ever worn moccasins? “I did get married, Daniel,” she said. “I married a mathematician. His name was Michael.” Miranda dropped her daisy, petals intact.

  Daniel continued to walk, swinging his arms easily. “Well, you were always hot for mathematics. I didn’t expect you to mourn me forever.”

  “So it’s all right?”

  Daniel stopped, turning to face her. He was still smiling, though it was not quite the smile she expected, not quite the easy, happy smile she remembered. “It’s all right that you got married, Randy,” he said softly. Something passed over his face and left it. “Hey!” he laughed again. “I remember something else from Physics 10. Zeno’s paradox. You know what that is?”

  “No,” said Miranda.

  “It’s an argument. Zeno agrued that motion was impossible because it required an object to pass through an infinite number of points in a finite amount of time.” Daniel swung his arms
energetically. “Think about it for a minute, Randy. Can you fault it? Then think about how far I came to be here with you.”

  * * *

  “Miranda. Miranda.” It was her mother’s voice, rousing her for school. Only then it wasn’t. It was Dr. Matsui who merely sounded maternal, despite the fact that she had no children of her own and was not yet thirty. Miranda felt her chair returning slowly to its upright position. “Are you back?” Dr. Matsui asked. “How did it go?”

  “It was short,” Miranda told her. She pulled the taped wires gently from her lids and opened her eyes. Dr. Matsui was seated beside her, reaching into Miranda’s hair to detach the clips which touched her scalp.

  “Perhaps we recalled you too early,” she conceded. “Matthew spotted an apex so we pulled the plug. We just wanted a happy ending. It was happy, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Dr. Matsui’s hair, parted on one side and curving smoothly under her chin, bobbed before Miranda’s face. Miranda touched it briefly, then her own hair, her cheeks, and her nose. They felt solid under her hand, real, but no more so than Daniel had been “Yes, it was,” she repeated. “He was so happy to see me. So glad to be back. But, Anna, he was so real. I thought you said it would be like a dream.”

  “No,” Dr. Matsui told her. “I said it wouldn’t be. I said it was a memory of something that never happened and in that respect was like a dream. I wasn’t speaking to the quality of the experience.” She rolled her chair to the monitor and stripped the long feed-out sheet from it, tracing the curves quickly with one finger. Matthew, her technician, came to stand behind her. He leaned over her left shoulder, pointing. “There,” he said. “That’s Daniel. That’s what I put in.”

  Dr. Matsui returned her chair to Miranda’s side. “Here’s the map,” she said. “Maybe I can explain better.”

  Miranda tried to sit forward. One remaining clip pulled her hair and made her inhale sharply. She reached up to detach herself. “Sorry,” said Dr. Matsui sheepishly. She held out the paper for Miranda to see. “The dark waves is the Daniel we recorded off your memories earlier. Happy memories, right? You can see the fainter echo here as you responded to it with the original memories. Think of it as memory squared. Naturally, it’s going to be intense. Then, everything else here is the record of the additional activity you brought to this particular session. Look at these sharp peaks at the beginning. They indicate stress. You’ll see that nowhere else do they recur. On paper it looks to have been an entirely successful session. Of course, only you know the content of the experience.” Her dark eyes were searching and sympathetic. “Well,” she said. “Do you feel better about him?”