The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year-I

by Jonathan Strahan

  "It's time now for your relocation. You've had a fair and lawful amount of time to choose your destination, but have failed to take advantage of this opportunity. Now your government has done so for you. Please board the buses in an orderly fashion. Your possessions will follow later."

  "Where are we going?" someone called out.

  Imperious, Hannah Lawes answered, "You'll find out when you arrive."

  Indignation and confusion bloomed in the crowd. A contradictory babble began to mount heavenward. Hannah Lawes said nothing more immediately. I assumed she was waiting for the chaotic reaction to burn itself out, leaving the refugees sheepishly ready to obey.

  But she hadn't countered on the children intervening.

  A massed juvenile shriek brought silence in its wake. There was nothing wrong with the children gathered on the edges of the crowd, as evidenced by their nervous smiles. But their tactic had certainly succeeded in drawing everyone's attention.

  Izzy was up front of her peers, and she shouted now, her young voice proud and confident.

  "Follow us! We've made a new home for everyone!"

  The children turned as one and began trotting away toward Djamala.

  For a frozen moment, none of the adults made a move. Then, a man and woman—Vonique's parents—set out after the children.

  Their departure catalyzed a mad general desperate rush, toward a great impossible unknown that could only be better than the certainty offered by FEMA.

  Nia had been standing by my side, but she was swept away. I caught a last glimpse of her smiling, shining face as she looked back for a moment over her shoulder. Then the crowd carried her off.

  I found myself hesitating. How could I face the inevitable crushing disappointment of the children, myself, and everyone else when their desperate hopes were met by a metropolis of sticks and stones and pebbles? Being there when it happened, seeing all the hurt, crestfallen faces at the instant they were forced to acknowledge defeat, would be sheer torture. Why not just wait here for their predestined return, when we could pretend the mass insanity had never happened, mount the buses and roll off, chastised and broken, to whatever average future was being offered to us?

  Hannah Lawes had sidled up to me, loud-hailer held by her side.

  "I'm glad to see at least one sensible person here, Mr. Hedges. Congratulations for being a realist."

  Her words, her barely concealed glee and schadenfreude, instantly flipped a switch inside me from off to on, and I sped after my fellow refugees.

  Halfway through the encampment, I glanced up to see Djamala looming ahead.

  The splendors I had seen in ghostly fashion weeks ago were now magnified and recomplicated across acres of space. A city woven of childish imagination stretched impossibly to the horizon and beyond, its towers and monuments sparkling in the sun.

  I left the last tents behind me in time to see the final stragglers entering the streets of Djamala. I heard water splash from fountains, shoes tapping on shale sidewalks, laughter echoing down wide boulevards.

  But at the same time, I could see only a memory of myself in a ruined building, gun in hand, confronting a shadow assassin.

  Which was reality?

  I faltered to a stop.

  Djamala vanished in a blink.

  And I fell insensible to the ground.

  I awoke in the tent that served as the infirmary for Femaville 29. Hannah Lawes was sitting by my bedside.

  "Feeling better, Mr. Hedges? You nearly disrupted the exodus."

  "What—what do you mean?"

  "Your fellow refugees. They've all been bussed to their next station in life."

  I sat up on my cot. "What are you trying to tell me? Didn't you see the city, Djamala? Didn't you see it materialize where the children built it? Didn't you see all the refugees flood in?"

  Hannah Lawes's cocoa skin drained of vitality as she sought to master what were evidently strong emotions in conflict.

  "What I saw doesn't matter, Mr. Hedges. It's what the government has determined to have happened that matters. And the government has marked all your fellow refugees from Femaville 29 as settled elsewhere in the normal fashion. Case closed. Only you remain behind to be dealt with. Your fate is separate from theirs now. You certainly won't be seeing any of your temporary neighbors again for some time—if ever."

  I recalled the spires and lakes, the pavilions and theaters of Djamala. I pictured Ethan Duplessix rattling the bars of the Iron Grotto. I was sure he'd reform, and be set free eventually. I pictured Nia and Izzy, swanning about in festive apartments, happy and safe, with Izzy enjoying the fruits of her labors.

  And myself the lame child left behind by the Pied Piper.

  "No," I replied, "I don't suppose I will see them again soon."

  Hannah Lawes smiled at my acceptance of her dictates, but only for a moment, until I spoke again.

  "But then, you can never be sure."

  SOB IN THE SILENCE

  Gene Wolfe

  Gene Wolfe worked as an engineer, before becoming editor of trade journal Plant Engineering. He came to prominence as a writer in the late '60s with a sequence of short stories—including "The Hero as Werewolf", "Seven American Nights", and "The Island of Doctor Death and Other Stories"—in Damon Knight's Orbit anthologies. His early major novels were The Fifth Head of Cerberus and Peace, but he established his reputation with a sequence of three long multi-volume novels—The Book of the New Sun (4 vols), The Book of the Long Sun (4 vols), The Book of the Short Sun (3 vols)—and pendant volume, The Urth of the New Sun. Wolfe has published a number of short story collections, including The Island of Doctor Death and Other Stories and Other Stories, Endangered Species, and Strange Travelers. He has won the Nebula Award and World Fantasy Award twice, the Locus Award four times, the John W. Campbell Memorial Award, the British Fantasy Award, the British SF Award, and is the recipient of the World Fantasy Award for Lifetime Achievement. Wolfe's most recent book is the novel Soldier of Sidon. Upcoming is new novel Pirate Freedom.

  Stories by writers featuring writers have a long and distinguished history, and it's not that unusual for them to come to a sticky end of one kind or another. Of course, that's not always the way it works out. . .

  "This," the horror writer told the family visiting him, "is beyond any question the least haunted house in the Midwest. No ghost, none at all, will come within miles of the place. So I am assured."

  Robbie straightened his little glasses and mumbled, "Well, it looks haunted."

  "It does, young man." After teetering between seven and eight, the horror writer decided that Robbie was about seven. "It's the filthy yellow stucco. No doubt it was a cheerful yellow once, but God only knows how long it's been up. I'm going to have it torn off, every scrap of it, and put up fresh, which I will paint white."

  "Can't you just paint over?" Kiara asked. (Kiara of the all-conquering pout, of the golden hair and the tiny silver earrings.)

  Looking very serious, the horror writer nodded. And licked his lips only mentally. "I've tried, believe me. That hideous color is the result of air pollution—of smoke, soot, and dirt, if you will—that has clung to the stucco. Paint over it, and it bleeds out through the new paint. Washing—"

  "Water jets under high pressure." Dan was Robbie's father, and Kiara's. "You can rent the units, or buy one for a thousand or so."

  "I own one," the horror writer told him. "With a strong cleaning agent added to the water, it will do the job." He paused to smile. "Unfortunately, the stucco's old and fragile. Here and there, a good jet breaks it."

  "Ghosts," Charity said. Charity was Mrs. Dan, a pudgy woman with a soft, not unattractive face and a remarkable talent for dowdy hats. "Please go back to your ghosts. I find ghosts far more interesting."

  "As do I." The horror writer favored her with his most dazzling smile. "I've tried repeatedly to interest psychic researchers in the old place, which has a—may I call it fascinating? History. I've been persuasive and persistent, and no less than
three teams have checked this old place out as a result. All three have reported that they found nothing. No evidence whatsoever. No spoor of spooks. No cooperative specters a struggling author might use for research purposes."

  "And publicity," Kiara said. "Don't forget publicity. I plan to get into public relations when I graduate."

  "And publicity, you're right. By the time you're well settled in public relations, I hope to be wealthy enough to engage you. If I am, I will. That's a promise."

  Charity leveled a plump forefinger. "You, on the other hand, have clearly seen or heard or felt something. You had to have something more than this big dark living-room to get the psychics in, and you had it. Tell us."

  The horror writer produced a sharply bent briar that showed signs of years of use. "Will this trouble anyone? I rarely smoke in here, but if we're going to have a good long chat—well, a pipe may make things go more smoothly. Would anyone care for a drink?"

  Charity was quickly equipped with white wine, Dan with Johnnie-Walker-and-water, and Robbie with cola. "A lot of the kids drink beer at IVY Tech," Kiara announced in a tone that indicated she was one of them. "I don't, though."

  "Not until you're twenty-one," Dan said firmly.

  "You see?" She pouted.

  The horror writer nodded. "I do indeed. One of the things I see is that you have good parents, parents who care about you and are zealous for your welfare." He slipped Kiara a scarcely perceptible wink. "What about a plain soda? I always find soda water over ice refreshing, myself."

  Charity said, "That would be fine, if she wants it."

  Kiara said she did, and he became busy behind the bar.

  Robbie had been watching the dark upper corners of the old, high-ceilinged room. "I thought I saw one."

  "A ghost?" The horror writer looked up, his blue eyes twinkling.

  "A bat. Maybe we can catch it."

  Dan said, "There's probably a belfry, too."

  "I'm afraid not. Perhaps I'll add one once I get the new stucco on."

  "You need one. As I've told my wife a dozen times, anybody who believes in ghosts has bats in his belfry."

  "It's better, perhaps," Charity murmured, "if living things breathe and move up there. Better than just bells, rotting ropes, and dust. Tell us more about this place, please."

  "It was a country house originally." With the air of one who performed a sacrament, the horror writer poured club soda into a tall frosted glass that already contained five ice cubes and (wholly concealed by his fingers) a generous two inches of vodka. "A quiet place in which a wealthy family could get away from the heat and stench of city summers. The family was ruined somehow—I don't recall the details. I know it's usually the man who kills in murder-suicides, but in this house it was the woman. She shot her husband and her stepdaughters, and killed herself."

  Charity said, "I could never bring myself to do that. I could never kill Dan. Or his children. I suppose I might kill myself. That's conceivable. But not the rest."

  Straight-faced, the horror writer handed his frosted glass to Kiara. "I couldn't kill myself," he told her. "I like myself too much. Other people? Who can say?"

  Robbie banged down his cola. "You're trying to scare us!"

  "Of course I am. It's my trade."

  Dan asked, "They all died? That's good shooting."

  The horror writer resumed his chair and picked up his briar. "No. As a matter of fact they didn't. One of the three stepdaughters survived. She had been shot in the head at close range, yet she lived."

  Dan said, "Happens sometime."

  "It does. It did in this case. Her name was Maude Parkhurst. Maude was a popular name back around nineteen hundred, which is when her parents and sisters died. Ever hear of her?"

  Dan shook his head.

  "She was left penniless and scarred for life. It seems to have disordered her thinking. Or perhaps the bullet did it. In any event, she founded her own church and was its pope and prophetess. It was called—maybe it's still called, since it may still be around for all I know—the Unionists of Heaven and Earth."

  Charity said, "I've heard of it. It sounded innocent enough."

  The horror writer shrugged. "Today? Perhaps it is. Back then, I would say no. Decidedly no. It was, in its own fantastic fashion, about as repellent as a cult can be. May I call it a cult?"

  Kiara grinned prettily over her glass. "Go right ahead. I won't object."

  "A friend of mine, another Dan, once defined a cult for me. He said that if the leader gets all the women, it's a cult."

  Dan nodded. "Good man. There's a lot to that."

  "There is, but in the case of the UHE, as it was called, it didn't apply. Maude Parkhurst didn't want the women, or the men either. The way to get to Heaven, she told her followers, was to live like angels here on earth."

  Dan snorted.

  "Exactly. Any sensible person would have told them that they were not angels. That it was natural and right for angels to live like angels, but that men and women should live like human beings."

  "We really know almost nothing about angels." Charity looked pensive. "Just that they carry the Lord's messages. It's Saint Paul, I think, who says that each of us has an angel who acts as our advocate in Heaven. So we know that, too. But it's really very little."

  "This is about sex," Kiara said. "I smell it coming."

  The horror writer nodded. "You're exactly right, and I'm beginning to wonder if you're not the most intelligent person here. It is indeed. Members of the UHE were to refrain from all forms of sexual activity. If unmarried, they were not to marry. If married, they were to separate and remain separated."

  "The University of Heaven at Elysium. On a T-shirt. I can see it now."

  Charity coughed, the sound of it scarcely audible in the large, dark room. "Well, Kiara, I don't see anything wrong with that if it was voluntary."

  "Neither do I," the horror writer said, "but there's more. Those wishing to join underwent an initiation period of a year. At the end of that time, there was a midnight ceremony. If they had children, those children had to attend, all of them. There they watched their parents commit suicide—or that's how it looked. I don't know the details, but I know that at the end of the service they were carried out of the church, apparently lifeless and covered with blood."

  Charity whispered, "Good God.. . ."

  "When the congregation had gone home," the horror writer continued, "the children were brought here. They were told that it was an orphanage, and it was operated like one. Before long it actually was one. Apparently there was some sort of tax advantage, so it was registered with the state as a church-run foundation, and from time to time the authorities sent actual orphans here. It was the age of orphanages, as you may know. Few children, if any, were put in foster homes. Normally, it was the orphanage for any child without parents or close relatives."

  Dan said, "There used to be a comic strip about it, 'Little Orphan Annie.'"

  The horror writer nodded. "Based upon a popular poem of the nineteenth century.

  "'Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,

  An' wash the cups an' saucers up,

  an' brush the crumbs away,

  An' shoo the chickens off the porch,

  an' dust the hearth an' sweep,

  An' make the fire, an' bake the bread,

  an' earn her board an' keep.

  An' all us other children,

  when the supper things is done,

  We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun

  A-list'nin' to the witch tales 'at Annie tells about,

  An' the Gobble-uns 'at gets you

  Ef you

  Don't

  Watch

  Out!'

  "You see," the horror writer finished, smiling, "in those days you could get an orphan girl from such an orphanage as this to be your maid of all work and baby-sitter. You fed and clothed her, gave her a place to sleep, and paid her nothing at all. Despite being showered with that sort of kindnes
s, those girls picked up enough of the monstrosity and lonely emptiness of the universe to become the first practitioners of my art, the oral recounters of horrific tales whose efforts preceded all horror writing."

  "Was it really so bad for them?" Kiara asked.

  "Here? Worse. I haven't told you the worst yet, you see. Indeed, I haven't even touched upon it." The horror writer turned to Dan. "Perhaps you'd like to send Robbie out. That might be advisable."

  Dan shrugged. "He watches TV. I doubt that anything you'll say will frighten him."

  Charity pursed her lips but said nothing.

  The horror writer had taken advantage of the pause to light his pipe. "You don't have to stay, Robbie." He puffed fragrant white smoke, and watched it begin its slow climb to the ceiling. "You know where your room is, and you may go anywhere in the house unless you meet with a locked door."

  Kiara smiled. "Secrets! We're in Bluebeard's cashel—castle. I knew it!"

  "No secrets," the horror writer told her, "just a very dangerous cellar stair—steep, shaky, and innocent of any sort of railing."

  Robbie whispered, "I'm not going."

  "So I see. From time to time, Robbie, one of the children would learn or guess that his parents were not in fact dead. When that happened, he or she might try to get away and return home. I've made every effort to learn just how often that happened, but the sources are contradictory on the point. Some say three and some five, and one says more than twenty. I should add that we who perform this type of research soon learn to be wary of the number three. It's the favorite of those who don't know the real number. There are several places on the grounds that may once have been graves—unmarked graves long since emptied by the authorities. But—"

  Charity leaned toward him, her face tense. "Do you mean to say that those children were killed?"

  The horror writer nodded. "I do. Those who were returned here by their parents were. That is the most horrible fact attached to this really quite awful old house. Or at least, it is the worst we know of—perhaps the worst that occurred."

  He drew on his pipe, letting smoke trickle from his nostrils. "A special midnight service was held here, in this room in which we sit. At that service the church members are said to have flown. To have fluttered about this room like so many strange birds. No doubt they ran and waved their arms, as children sometimes do. Very possibly they thought they flew. The members of medieval witch cults seem really to have believed that they flew to the gatherings of their covens, although no sane person supposes they actually did."