The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Third Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  Previous parties have left a trail with rock ducks and blazes chopped onto boulder faces, and they follow it wherever they can find it. The ascent is tedious; although this is one of the smaller fans of broken rock at the bottom of the escarpment (in some areas mass wasting has collapsed the entire cliff into talus), it will still take them all of a very long day to wind their way through the giant rockpile to the bottom of the wall proper, some seven hundred meters above base camp.

  At first Roger approves of the hike through the jumbled field of house-sized boulders. “The Khumbu Rockfall,” Ivan calls out, getting into his Sherpa persona as they pass under a big stone serrac. But unlike the Khumbu Icefall below the fabled Everest, this chaotic terrain is relatively stable; the overhangs won’t fall on them, and there are few hidden crevasses to fall into. No, it is just a rockfield, and Roger likes it. Still, on the way they pass little pockets of chir pine and juniper, and ahead of Roger, Hans apparently feels obliged to identify every flower to Arthur. “There’s aconite, and those are anemones, and that’s a kind of iris, and those are gentians, and those are primulas.…” Arthur stops to point. “What the hell is that!”

  Staring down at them from a flat-topped boulder is a small furry mammal. “It’s a dune dog,” Hans says proudly. “They’ve clipped some marmot and Weddell seal genes onto what is basically a wolverine.”

  “You’re kidding! It looks like a miniature polar bear.”

  Behind them Roger shakes his head, kicks idly at a stand of tundra cactus. It is flowering; the six-month Martian spring is beginning. Syrtis grass tufting in every wet sandy flat. Little biology experiments, everywhere you look; the whole planet one big laboratory. Roger sighs. Arthur tries to pick one of each variety of flower, making a bouquet suitable for a state funeral, but after too many falls he gives up, and lets the colorful bundle hang from his hand. Late in the day they reach the bottom of the wall. The whole world is in shadow, while the clear sky overhead is still a bright lavender. Looking up they cannot see the top of the escarpment any more; they will not see it again unless their climb succeeds.

  Camp One is a broad, flat circle of sand, surrounded by boulders that were once part of the face, and set under a slight overhang formed by the sheer rampart of basalt that stands to the right side of the Great Gully. Protected from rockfall, roomy and comfortable to lie on, Camp One is perfect for a big lower camp, and it has been used before; between the rocks they find pitons, oxygen cylinders, buried latrines overgrown with bright green moss.

  * * *

  The next day they wind their way back down through the talus to Base Camp—all but Dougal and Marie, who take the day to look at the routes leading out of Camp One. For the rest of them, it’s off before dawn, and down through the talus at nearly a running pace; a quick reloading; and back up in a race to reach Camp One again before nightfall. Every one of the next four days will be spent in the same way, and the Sherpas will continue for three more days after that, threading the same trail through the boulders, until all the equipment has been lugged up to Camp One.

  In the same way that a tongue will go to a sore tooth over and over, Roger finds himself following Hans and Arthur to hear the areologist’s explanations. He has realized, to his chagrin, that he is nearly as ignorant about what lives on Mars as Arthur is.

  “See the blood pheasant?”

  “No.”

  “Over there. The head tuft is black. Pretty well camouflaged.”

  “You’re kidding. Why, there it is!”

  “They like these rocks. Blood pheasants, redstarts, accentors—more of them here than we ever see.”

  Later: “Look there!”

  “Where?”

  Roger finds himself peering in the direction Hans has pointed.

  “On the tall rock, see? The killer rabbit, they call it. A joke.”

  “Oh, a joke,” Arthur says carefully. Roger makes a revision in his estimation of the Terran’s subtlety. “A rabbit with fangs?”

  “Not exactly. Actually there’s very little hare in it—more lemming and pika, but with some important traits of the lynx added. A very successful creature. Some of Harry Whitebook’s work. He’s very good.”

  “So some of your biological designers become famous?”

  “Oh yes. Very much so. Whitebook is one of the best of the mammal designers. And we seem to have a special love for mammals, don’t we?”

  “I know I do.” Several puffing steps up waist-high blocks. “I just don’t understand how they can survive the cold!”

  “Well, it’s not that cold down here, of course. This is the top of the alpine zone, in effect. The adaptations for cold are usually taken directly from arctic and antarctic creatures. Many seals can cut the circulation to their extremeties when necessary to preserve heat. And they have a sort of anti-freeze in their blood—a glycoprotein that binds to the surface of ice crystals and stops their growth—stops the accumulation of salts. Wonderful stuff. Some of these mammals can freeze limbs and thaw them without damage to the flesh.”

  “You’re kidding,” Roger whispers as he hikes.

  “You’re kidding!”

  “And these adaptations are part of most Martian mammals. Look! There’s a little foxbear! That’s Whitebook again.”

  Roger stops following them. No more Mars.

  * * *

  Black night. The six big box tents of Camp One glow like a string of lamps at the foot of the cliff. Roger, out in the rubble relieving himself, looks back at them curiously. It is, he thinks, an odd group. People from all over Mars (and a Terran). Only climbing in common. The lead climbers are funny. Dougal sometimes seems a mute, always watching from a corner, never speaking. A self-enclosed system. Marie speaks for both of them, perhaps. Roger can hear her broad Midlands voice now, hoarse with drink, telling someone how to climb the face. She’s happy to be here. Roger? He shakes his head, returns to the tents.

  * * *

  Inside Eileen’s tent he finds a heated discussion in progress. Marie Whillans says, “Look, Dougal and I have already gone nearly a thousand meters up these so-called blank slabs. There are cracks all over the place.”

  “As far as you’ve gone there are,” Eileen says. “But the true slabs are supposed to be above those first cracks. Four hundred meters of smooth rock. We could be stopped outright.”

  “So we could, but there’s got to be some cracks. And we can bolt our way up any really blank sections if we have to. That way we’d have a completely new route.”

  Hans Boethe shakes his head. “Putting bolts in some of this basalt won’t be any fun.”

  “I hate bolts anyway,” Eileen says. “The point is, if we take the Gully up to the first amphitheater, we know we’ve got a good route to the top, and all the upper pitches will be new.”

  Stephan nods, Hans nods, Frances nods. Roger sips a cup of tea and watches with interest. Marie says, “The point is, what kind of climb do we want to have?”

  “We want to get to the top,” Eileen says, glancing at Stephen, who nods. Stephan has paid for most of this expedition, and so in a sense it’s his choice.

  “Wait a second,” Marie says sharply, eyeing each of them in turn. “That’s not what it’s about. We’re not here just to repeat the Gully route, are we?” Her voice is accusing and no one meets her eye. “That wasn’t what I was told, anyway. I was told we were taking a new route, and that’s why I’m here.”

  “It will inevitably be a new route,” Eileen says. “You know that, Marie. We trend right at the top of the Gully and we’re on new ground. We only avoid the blank slabs that flank the Gully to the right!”

  “I think we should try those slabs,” Marie says, “because Dougal and I have found they’ll go.” She argues for this route, and Eileen listens patiently. Stephan looks worried; Marie is persuasive, and it seems possible that her forceful personality will overwhelm Eileen’s, leading them onto a route rumored to be impossible.

  But Eileen says, “Climbing any route on this wall with only el
even people will be doing something. Look, we’re only talking about the first 1200 meters of the climb. Above that we’ll tend to the right whenever possible, and be on new ground above these slabs.”

  “I don’t believe in the slabs,” Marie says. And after a few more exchanges: “Well, that being the case, I don’t see why you sent Dougal and me up the slabs these last few days.”

  “I didn’t send you up,” Eileen says, a bit exasperated. “You two choose the leads, you know that. But this is a fundamental choice, and I think the Gully is the opening pitch we came to make. We do want to make the top, you know. Not just of the wall, but the whole mountain.”

  After more discussion Marie shrugs. “Okay. You’re the boss. But it makes me wonder. Why are we making this climb?”

  * * *

  On the way to his tent Roger remembers the question. Breathing the cold air, he looks around. In Camp One the world seems a place creased and folded: horizontal half stretching away into darkness—back down into the dead past; vertical half stretching up to the stars—into the unknown. Only two tents lit from within now, two soft blobs of yellow in the gloom. Roger stops outside his darkened tent to look at them, feeling they say something to him; the eyes of the mountains, looking.… Why is he making this climb?

  * * *

  Up the Great Gully they go. Dougal and Marie lead pitch after pitch up the rough, unstable rock, hammering in pitons and leaving fixed ropes behind. The ropes tend to stay in close to the right wall of the gully, to avoid the falling rock that shoots down it all too frequently. The other climbers follow from pitch to pitch in teams of two and three. As they ascend they can see the four Sherpas, tiny animals winding their way down the talus again.

  Roger has been teamed with Hans for the day. They clip themselves onto the fixed rope with jumars, metal clasps that will slide up the rope but not down. They are carrying heavy packs up to Camp 2, and even though the slope of the Gully is only fifty degrees here, and its dark rock knobby and easy to climb, they both find the work hard. The sun is hot and their faces are quickly bathed with sweat.

  “I’m not in the best of shape for this,” Hans puffs. “It may take me a few days to get my rhythm.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Roger says. “We’re going about as fast as I like.”

  “I wonder how far above Camp 2 is?”

  “Not too far. Too many carries to make, without the power reels.”

  “I look forward to the vertical pitches. If we’re going to climb we might as well climb, eh?”

  “Especially since the power reels will pull our stuff up.”

  “Yes.” Breathless laugh.

  * * *

  Steep, deep ravine. Medium gray andesite, an igneous volcanic rock, speckled with crystals of dark minerals, knobbed with hard protrusions. Pitons hammered into small vertical cracks.

  Midday they meet with Eileen, Arthur, and Frances, the team above, who are sitting on a narrow ledge in the wall of the Gully, jamming down a quick lunch. The sun is nearly overhead; in an hour they will lose it. Roger and Hans are happy to sit on the ledge. Lunch is lemonade and several handfuls of the trail mix Frances has made. The others discuss the gully and the day’s climb, and Roger eats and listens. He becomes aware of Eileen sitting on the ledge beside him. Her feet kick the wall casually, and the quadriceps on the tops of her thighs, big exaggerated muscles, bunch and relax, bunch and relax, stretching the fabric of her climbing pants. She is following Hans’s description of the rock and appears not to notice Roger’s discreet observation. Could she really not remember him? Roger breathes a soundless sigh. It’s been a long life. And all his effort—

  * * *

  “Let’s get up to Camp 2,” Eileen says, looking at him curiously.

  * * *

  Early in the afternoon they find Marie and Dougal on a broad shelf sticking out of the steep slabs to the right of the Great Gully. Here they make Camp 2: four large box tents, made to withstand rockfalls of some severity.

  Now the verticality of the escarpment becomes something immediate and tangible. They can only see the wall for a few hundred meters above them; beyond that it is hidden, except up the steep trough in the wall that is the Great Gully, etching the vertical face just next to their shelf. Looking up this giant couloir they can see more of the endless cliff above them, dark and foreboding against the pink sky.

  Roger spends an hour of the cold afternoon sitting at the Gully edge of their shelf, looking up. They have a long way to go; his hands in their thick pile mittens are sore, his shoulders and legs tired, his feet cold. He wishes more than anything that he could shake the depression that fills him; but thinking that only makes it worse.

  Eileen Monday sits beside him. “So we were friends once, you say.”

  “Yeah.” Roger looks her in the eye. “You don’t remember at all?”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “Yes. I was twenty-six, you were about twenty-three.”

  “You really remember that long ago?”

  “Some of it, yes.”

  Eileen shakes her head. She has good features, Roger thinks. Fine eyes. “I wish I did. But as I get older my memory gets even worse. Now I think for every year I live I lose at least that much in memories. It’s sad. My whole life before I was seventy or eighty—all gone.” She sighs. “I know most people are like that, though. You’re an exception.”

  “Some things seem to be stuck in my mind for good,” says Roger. He can’t believe it isn’t true of everyone! But that’s what they all say. It makes him melancholy. Why live at all? What’s the point? “Have you hit your three hundredth yet?”

  “In a few months. But—come on. Tell me about it.”

  “Well … you were a student. Or just finishing school, I can’t remember.” She smiles. “Anyway, I was guiding groups in hikes through the little canyons north of here, and you were part of a group. We started up a—a little affair, as I recall. And saw each other for a while after we got back. But you were in Burroughs, and I kept guiding tours, and—well, you know. It didn’t last.”

  Eileen smiles again. “So I went on to become a mountain guide—which I’ve been for as long as I can remember—while you moved to the city and got into politics!” She laughs and Roger smiles wryly. “Obviously we must have impressed each other!”

  “Oh yes, yes.” Roger laughs shortly. “Searching for each other.” He grins lopsidedly, feeling bitter. “Actually, I only got into government about forty years ago. Too late, as it turned out.”

  Silence for a while. “So that’s what’s got you down,” Eileen says.

  “What?”

  “The Red Mars party—out of favor.”

  “Out of existence, you mean.”

  She considers it. “I never could understand the Red point of view—”

  “Few could, apparently.”

  “—Until I read something in Heidegger, where he makes a distinction between earth and world. Do you know it?”

  “No.

  “Earth is that blank materiality of nature that exists before us and more or less sets the parameters on what we can do. Sartre called it facticity. World then is the human realm, the social and historical dimension that gives earth its meaning.”

  Roger nods his understanding.

  “So—the Reds, as I understood it, were defending earth. Or planet, in this case. Trying to protect the primacy of planet over world—or at least to hold a balance between them.”

  “Yes,” Roger said. “But the world inundated the planet.”

  “True. But when you look at it that way, you can see what you were trying to do was hopeless. A political party is inevitably part of the world, and everything it does will be worldly. And we only know the materiality of nature through our human senses—so really it is only world that we know directly.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” Roger protested. “I mean, it’s logical, and usually I’m sure it’s true—but sometimes”—He smacks the rock of their shelf with his mitten
ed hand. “You know?”

  Eileen touches the mitten. “World.”

  Roger lifts his lip, irritated. He pulls the mitten off and hits the cold rock again. “Planet.”

  Eileen frowns thoughtfully. “Maybe.”

  And there was hope, Roger thought fiercely. We could have lived on the planet the way we found it, and confronted the materiality of earth every day of our lives. We could have.

  Eileen is called away to help with the arrangement of the next day’s loads. “We’ll continue this later,” she says, touching Roger lightly on the shoulder.

  * * *

  He is left alone over the Gully. Moss discolors the stone under him, and grows in cracks in the couloir. Swallows shoot down the Gully like falling stones, hunting for cliff mice or warm-blooded lizards. To the east, beyond the great shadow of the volcano, dark forests mark the sunlit Tharsis bulge like blobs of lichen. Nowhere can one see Mars, just Mars, the primal Mars. Clenching a cold, rope-sore fist, Roger thinks, They forgot. They forgot what it was like to walk out onto the empty face of old Mars.

  Once he walked out onto the Great Northern Desert. All of Mars’s geographical features are immense by Terran scales, and just as the southern hemisphere is marked by huge canyons, basins, volcanoes, and craters, the northern hemisphere is strangely, hugely smooth; in fact it had, in its highest latitudes, surrounding what at that time was the polar ice cap (it is now a small sea), a planet-ringing expanse of empty, layered sand. Endless desert. And one morning before dawn Roger walked out of his campsite and hiked a few kilometers over the broad wave-like humps of the windswept sand, and sat down on the crest of one of the highest waves. There was no sound but his breath, his blood pounding in his ears, and the slight hiss of the oxygen regulator in his helmet. Light leaked over the horizon to the southeast and began to bring out the sand’s dull ochre, flecked with dark red. When the sun cracked the horizon the light bounced off the short steep faces of the dunes and filled everything. He breathed the gold air, and something in him bloomed, he became a flower in a garden of rock, the sole consciousness of the desert, its focus, its soul. Nothing he had ever felt before came close to matching this exaltation, this awareness of brilliant light, of illimitable expanse, of the glossy, intense presence of material things. He returned to his camp late in the day, feeling that a moment had passed—or an age. He was nineteen years old, and his life was changed.