Year's Best Science Fiction 02 # 1985

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

  “To provide the next generation of host animals,” he said, switching from contempt to bitterness.

  “It’s more than that!” I countered. Was it?

  “If it were going to happen to me, I’d want to believe it was more, too.”

  “It is more!” I felt like a kid. Stupid argument.

  “Did you think so while T’Gatoi was picking worms out of that guy’s guts?”

  “It’s not supposed to happen that way.”

  “Sure it is. You weren’t supposed to see it, that’ all. And his Tlic was supposed to do it. She could sting him unconscious and the operation wouldn’t have been as painful. But she’d still open him, pick out the grubs, and if she missed even one, it would poison him and eat him from the inside out.”

  There was actually a time when my mother told me to show respect for Qui because he was my older brother. I walked away, hating him. In his way, he was gloating. He was safe and I wasn’t. I could have hit him, but I didn’t think I would be able to stand it when he refused to hit back, when he looked at me with contempt and pity.

  He wouldn’t let me get away. Longer-legged, he swung ahead of me and made me feel as though I were following him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I strode on, sick and furious.

  “Look, it probably won’t be that bad with you. T’Gatoi likes you. She’ll be careful.”

  I turned back toward the house, almost running from him.

  “Has she done it to you yet?” he asked, keeping up easily. “I mean, you’re about the right age for implantation. Has she—”

  I hit him. I didn’t know I was going to do it, but I think I meant to kill him. If he hadn’t been bigger and stronger, I think I would have.

  He tried to hold me off, but in the end, had to defend himself. He only hit me a couple of times. That was plenty. I don’t remember going down, but when I came to, he was gone. It was worth the pain to be rid of him.

  I got up and walked slowly toward the house. The back was dark. No one was in the kitchen. My mother and sisters were sleeping in their bedrooms—or pretending to.

  Once I was in the kitchen, I could hear voices—Tlic and Terran from the next room. I couldn’t make out what they were saying—didn’t want to make it out.

  I sat down at my mother’s table, waiting for quiet. The table was smooth and worn, heavy and well-crafted. My father had made it for her just before he died. I remembered hanging around underfoot when he built it. He didn’t mind. Now I sat leaning on it, missing him. I could have talked to him. He had done it three times in his long life. Three clutches of eggs, three times being opened and sewed up. How had he done it? How did anyone do it?

  I got up, took the rifle from its hiding place, and sat down again with it. It needed cleaning, oiling.

  All I did was load it.

  “Gan?”

  She made a lot of little clicking sounds when she walked on bare floor, each limb clicking in succession as it touched down. Waves of little clicks.

  She came to the table, raised the front half of her body above it, and surged onto it. Sometimes she moved so smoothly she seemed to flow like water itself. She coiled herself into a small hill in the middle of the table and looked at me.

  “That was bad,” she said softly. “You should not have seen it. It need not be that way.”

  “I know.”

  “T’Khotgif—Ch’Khotgif now—she will die of her disease. She will not live to raise her children. But her sister will provide for them, and for Bram Lomas.” Sterile sister. One fertile female in every lot. One to keep the family going. That sister owed Lomas more than she could ever repay.

  “He’ll live then?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder if he would do it again.”

  “No one would ask him to do that again.”

  I looked into the yellow eyes, wondering how much I saw and understood there, and how much I only imagined. “No one ever asks us,” I said. “You never asked me.”

  She moved her head slightly. “What’s the matter with your face?” “Nothing. Nothing important.” Human eyes probably wouldn’t have noticed the swelling in the darkness. The only light was from one of the moons, shining through a window across the room.

  “Did you use the rifle to shoot the achti?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you mean to use it to shoot me?”

  I stared at her, outlined in moonlight—coiled, graceful body. “What does Terran blood taste like to you?”

  She said nothing.

  “What are you?” I whispered. “What are we to you?”

  She lay still, rested her head on her topmost coil. “You know me as no other does,” she said softly. “You must decide.”

  “That’s what happened to my face,” I told her.

  “What?”

  “Qui goaded me into deciding to do something. It didn’t turn out very well.” I moved the gun slightly, brought the barrel up diagonally under my own chin. “At least it was a decision I made.”

  “As this will be.”

  “Ask me, Gatoi.”

  “For my children’s lives?”

  She would say something like that. She knew how to manipulate people, Terran and Tlic. But not this time.

  “I don’t want to be a host animal,” I said. “Not even yours.”

  It took her a long time to answer. “We use almost no host animals these days,” she said. “You know that.”

  “You use us.”

  “We do. We wait long years for you and teach you and join our families to yours.” She moved restlessly. “You know you aren’t animals to us.”

  I stared at her, saying nothing.

  “The animals we once used began killing most of our eggs after implantation long before your ancestors arrived,” she said softly. “You know these things, Gan. Because your people arrived, we are relearning what it means to be a healthy, thriving people. And your ancestors, fleeing from their homeworld, from their own kind who would have killed or enslaved them—they survived because of us. We saw them as people and gave them the Preserve when they still tried to kill us as worms.

  At the word “Worms” I jumped. I couldn’t help it, and she couldn’t help noticing it.

  “I see,” she said quietly. “Would you really rather die than bear my young, Gan?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Shall I go to Xuan Hoa?”

  “Yes!” Hoa wanted it. Let her have it. She hadn’t had to watch Lomas. She’d be proud … Not terrified.

  T’Gatoi flowed off the table onto the floor, startling me almost too much.

  “I’ll sleep in Hoa’s room tonight,” she said. “And sometime tonight or in the morning, I’ll tell her.”

  This was going too fast. My sister. Hoa had had almost as much to do with raising me as my mother. I was still close to her—not like Qui. She could want T’Gatoi and still love me.

  “Wait! Gatoi!”

  She looked back, then raised nearly half her length off the floor and turned it to face me. “These are adult things, Gan. This is my life, my family!”

  “But she’s … my sister.”

  “I have done what you demanded. I have asked you!”

  “But—”’

  “It will be easier for Hoa. She has always expected to carry other lives inside her.”

  Human lives. Human young who would someday drink at her breasts, not at her veins.

  I shook my head. “Don’t do it to her, Gatoi.” I was not Qui. It seemed I could become him, though, with no effort at all. I could make Xuan Hoa my shield. Would it be easier to know that red worms were growing in her flesh instead of mine?

  “Don’t do it to Hoa,” I repeated.

  She stared at me, utterly still.

  I looked away, then back at her. “Do it to me.”

  I lowered the gun from my throat and she leaned forward to take it.

  “No,” I told her.

  “It’s the law,” she said.<
br />
  “Leave it for the family. One of them might use it to save my life someday.”

  She grasped the rifle barrel, but I wouldn’t let go. I was pulled into a standing position over her.

  “Leave it here!” I repeated. “If we’re not your animals, if these are adult things, accept the risk. There is risk, Gatoi, in dealing with a partner.”

  It was clearly hard for her to let go of the rifle. A shudder went through her and she made a hissing sound of distress. It occurred to me that she was afraid. She was old enough to have seen what guns could do to people. Now her young and this gun would be together in the same house. She did not know about our other guns. In this dispute, they did not matter.

  “I will implant the first egg tonight,” she said as I put the gun away. “Do you hear, Gan?”

  Why else had I been given a whole egg to eat while the rest of the family was left to share one? Why else had my mother kept looking at me as though I were going away from her, going where she could not follow? Did T’Gatoi imagine I hadn’t known?

  “I hear.”

  “Now!” I let her push me out of the kitchen, then walked ahead of her toward my bedroom. The sudden urgency in her voice sounded real. “You would have done it to Hoa tonight!” I accused.

  “I must do it to someone tonight.”

  I stopped in spite of her urgency and stood in her way. “Don’t you care who?”

  She flowed around me and into my bedroom. I found her waiting on the couch we shared. There was nothing in Hoa’s room that she could have used. She would have done it to Hoa on the floor. The thought of her doing it to Hoa at all disturbed me in a different way now, and I was suddenly angry.

  Yet I undressed and lay down beside her. I knew what to do, what to expect. I had been told all my life. I felt the familiar sting, narcotic, mildly pleasant. Then the blind probing of her ovipositor. The puncture was painless, easy. So easy going in. She undulated slowly against me, her muscles forcing the egg from her body into mine. I held on to a pair of her limbs until I remembered Lomas holding her that way. Then I let go, moved inadvertently, and hurt her. She gave a low cry of pain and I expected to be caged at once within her limbs. When I wasn’t, I held on to her again, feeling oddly ashamed.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  She rubbed my shoulders with four of her limbs.

  “Do you care?” I asked. “Do you care that it’s me?”

  She did not answer for some time. Finally, “You were the one making choices tonight, Gan. I made mine long ago.”

  “Would you have gone to Hoa?”

  “Yes. How could I put my children into the care of one who hates them?”

  “It wasn’t … hate.”

  “I know what it was.”

  “I was afraid.”

  Silence.

  “I still am.” I could admit it to her here, now.

  “But you came to me … to save Hoa.”

  “Yes.” I leaned my forehead against her. She was cool velvet, deceptively soft. “And to keep you for myself,” I said. It was so. I didn’t understand it, but it was so.

  She made a soft hum of contentment. “I couldn’t believe I had made such a mistake with you,” she said. “I chose you. I believed you had grown to choose me.”

  “I had, but …”

  “Lomas.”

  “Yes.”

  “I have never known a Terran to see a birth and take it well. Qui has seen one, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Terrans should be protected from seeing.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that—and I doubted that it was possible. “Not protected,” I said. “Shown. Shown when we’re young kids, and shown more than once. Gatoi, no Terran ever sees a birth that goes right. All we see is N’Tlic—pain and terror and maybe death.”

  She looked down at me. “It is a private thing. It has always been a private thing.”

  Her tone kept me from insisting—that and the knowledge that if she changed her mind, I might be the first public example. But I had planted the thought in her mind. Chances were it would grow, and eventually she would experiment.

  “You won’t see it again,” she said. “I don’t want you thinking any more about shooting me.”

  The small amount of fluid that came into me with her egg relaxed me as completely as a sterile egg would have, so that I could remember the rifle in my hands and my feelings of fear and revulsion, anger and despair. I could remember the feelings without reviving them. I could talk about them.

  “I wouldn’t have shot you,” I said. “Not you.” She had been taken from my father’s flesh when he was my age.

  “You could have,” she insisted.

  “Not you.” She stood between us and her own people, protecting, interweaving.

  “Would you have destroyed yourself?”

  I moved carefully, uncomfortably. “I could have done that. I nearly did. That’s Qui’s ‘away.’ I wonder if he knows.”

  “What?”

  I did not answer.

  “You will live now.”

  “Yes.” Take care of her, my mother used to say. Yes.

  “I’m healthy and young,” she said. “I won’t leave you as Lomas was left—alone, N’Tlic. I’ll take care of you.”

  CONNIE WILLIS

  Blued Moon

  Connie Willis lives in Greeley, Colorado, with a husband, a fifteen-year-old daughter, and a bulldog. She first attracted attention as a writer in the late ’70s with a number of outstanding stories for the now-defunct magazine Galileo, and in the subsequent few years has made a large name for herself very fast indeed. In 1982, she won two Nebula Awards, one for her superb novelette “Fire Watch,” and one for her poignant short story “A Letter from the Clearys;” a few months later, “Fire Watch” went on to win her a Hugo Award as well. Her short fiction has appeared in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Omni, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, The Berkley Showcase, The Twilight Zone Magazine, The Missouri Review, and elsewhere. Her first novel, written in collaboration with Cynthia Felice, was Water Witch. She is currently working on her first solo novel, tentatively entitled The Three Bears. Her most recent book is Fire Watch, a collection of her short fiction, in which the story that follows also appears. Her story “The Sidon in the Mirror” was in our First Annual Collection.

  The typical Willis story is poignant, sensitive, quietly-told … but here, in a change of pace, she instead presents us with what I take to be a highly-successful attempt to reproduce one of the old Screwball Comedies of the ’40s (the kind of movie that always starred Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn) in written form: the very funny story of things that happen only once in a blued moon …

  FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: Mowen Chemical today announced implementation of an innovative waste emissions installation at its experimental facility in Chugwater, Wyoming. According to project directors Bradley McAfee and Lynn Saunders, nonutilizable hydrocarbonaceous substances will be propulsively transferred to stratospheric altitudinal locations, where photochemical decomposition will result in triatomic allotropism and formation of benign bicarbonaceous precipitates. Preliminary predictive databasing indicates positive ozonation yields without statistically significant shifts in lateral ecosystem equilibria.

  “Do you suppose Walter Hunt would have invented the safety pin if he had known that punk rockers would stick them through their cheeks?” Mr. Mowen said. He was looking gloomily out the window at the distant 600-foot-high smokestacks.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Mowen,” Janice said. She sighed. “Do you want me to tell them to wait again?”

  The sigh was supposed to mean, It’s after four o’clock and it’s getting dark, and you’ve already asked Research to wait three times, and when are you going to make up your mind? but Mr. Mowen ignored it.

  “On the other hand,” he said. “What about diapers? And all those babies that would have been stuck with straight pins if it hadn’t been for the safety pin?”
r />   “It is supposed to help restore the ozone layer, Mr. Mowen,” Janice said. “And according to Research, there won’t be any harmful side effects.”

  “You shoot a bunch of hydrocarbons into the stratosphere, and there won’t be any harmful side effects. According to Research.” Mr. Mowen swivelled his chair around to look at Janice, nearly knocking over the picture of his daughter Sally that sat on his desk. “I stuck Sally once. With a safety pin. She screamed for an hour. How’s that for a harmful side effect? And what about the stuff that’s left over after all this ozone is formed? Bicarbonate of soda, Research says. Perfectly harmless. How do they know that? Have they ever dumped bicarbonate of soda on people before? Call Research …” he started to say, but Janice had already picked up the phone and tapped the number. She didn’t even sigh. “Call Research and ask them to figure out what effect a bicarbonate of soda rain would have.”

  “Yes, Mr. Mowen,” Janice said. She put the phone up to her ear and listened for a moment. “Mr. Mowen …” she said hesitantly.

  “I suppose Research says it’ll neutralize the sulfuric acid that’s killing the statues and sweeten and deodorize at the same time.”

  “No, sir,” Janice said. “Research says they’ve already started the temperature-differential kilns, and you should be seeing something in a few minutes. They say they couldn’t wait any longer.”

  Mr. Mowen whipped back around in his chair to look out the window. The picture of Sally teetered again, and Mr. Mowen wondered if she were home from college yet. Nothing was coming out of the smokestacks. He couldn’t see the candlestick-base kilns through the maze of fast-food places and trailer parks. A McDonald’s sign directly in front of the smokestacks blinked on suddenly, and Mr. Mowen jumped. The smokestacks themselves remained silent and still except for their blinding strobe aircraft lights. He could see sagebrush-covered hills in the space between the stacks, and the whole scene, except for the McDonald’s sign, looked unbelievably serene and harmless.

  “Research says the kilns are fired to full capacity,” Janice said, holding the phone against her chest.

  Mr. Mowen braced himself for the coming explosion. There was a low rumbling like distant fire, then a puff of whitish smoke, and finally a deep, whooshing sound like one of Janice’s sighs, and two columns of blue shot straight up into the darkening sky.