Best Science Fiction of the Year 14

by Terry Carr (ed)

  The beeping stopped. "What note?" Ulric said, and let go of the hold button.

  Sally pulled her hand out of her pocket to press the lobby button again. A piece of paper fell out of her pocket. Ulric stepped inside as the doors started to close and picked up the piece of paper. After a minute, he said, "Look, I think I can explain how all this happened."

  "You'd better make it snappy," Sally said. "I'm getting out when we get to the lobby."

  As soon as Janice hung up the phone Brad grabbed his coat. He had a good idea of what Old Man Mo wen wanted him for. After Ulric had left, Brad had gotten a call from Time. They'd talkified for over half an hour about a photographer and a four-page layout on the waste-emissions project. He figured they'd call Old Man Mowen and tell him about the article, too, and sure enough, his terminal had started beeping an override before he even hung up. It stopped as he turned toward the terminal, and the screen went blank, and then it started beeping again, double-quick, and sure enough, it was his pappy-in-law to be. Before he could even begin reading the message, Janice called. He told her he'd be there faster than blue blazes, grabbed his coat, and started out the door.

  One of the elevators was on six and just starting down. The other one was on five and coming up. He punched his security code in and put his arm in the sleeve of his overcoat. The lining tore, and his arm went down inside it. He wrestled it free and tried to pull the lining back up to where it belonged. It tore some more.

  "Well, dadfetch it!" he said loudly. The elevator door opened. Brad got in, still trying to get his arm in the sleeve. The door closed behind him.

  The panel in the door started beeping. That meant an override. Maybe Mowen was trying to call him back. He pushed the DOOR OPEN button, but nothing happened. The elevator started down. "Dagnab it all," he said.

  "Hi, Brad," Lynn said. He turned around.

  "You look a mite wadgetty," Sue said. "Doesn't he, Jill?"

  "Right peaked," Jill said.

  "Maybe he's got the flit-flats," Gail said.

  Charlotte didn't say anything. She clutched the file folder to her chest and growled. Overhead, the lights flickered, and the elevator ground to a halt.

  FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: Mowen Chemical today announced temporary finalization of its pyrolitic strato-spheric waste-emissions program pending implementation of an environmental impact verification process. Lynn Saunders, director of the project, indicated that facilities will be temporarily deactivated during reorientation of predictive assessment criteria. In an unrelated communication, P.B. Mowen, president of Mowen Chemical, announced the upcoming nuptials of his daughter Sally Mowen and Ulric Henry, vice-president in charge of language effectiveness documentation.

  * * *

  SUMMER SOLSTICE

  Charles L Harness

  We turn now to the past, more than two thousand years ago in Egypt, when Eratosthenes was first proving that our world is round. His contention (which he worked out mathematically to a surprising degree of accuracy) was of course heresy at the time… but what if an alien from an advanced star-race had been present to aid Eratosthenes? "Summer Solstice" tells the results with delightful historical accuracy, plus more.

  Charles L. Harness has quietly been writing science fiction stories for nearly forty years; they've all been outstanding, including such novels as The Rose, Firebird, and The Venetian Court.

  * * *

  1. The Ship Is Hit

  Even as the sleeper lid rose, Khor could see the console lights flashing and he could hear the intermittent buzzer.

  The break-sleep alarm. Very often the last sound some spacemen ever heard. His blood pressure began to mount. He wasn't even completely awake, and his body was doing this to him. He shuddered. He would not see home again. Never again the stern Zoology Supervisor. ("What, Khor, still no featherless biped?" And Queva… she had taken the sleep, to wait for him. Beloved Queva. She had given him the key to her casket. "You alone will open. Else I sleep forever." No, Queva, no, no, no… I may never return. But she had done it. The female mind… beyond all comprehension. Well, my friend, what now?)

  He deciphered the alarm code mentally as he clambered up from the cushions: the hydraulic system had been hit, aft. Bad, bad. He had a dreadful premonition of what he would find. Get to it. Know the worst.

  He ran a finger around his helmet seal, brushing his scapular feathers. Still air-tight. Next he sat on the side of the casket and wondered whether he should remove his helmet. He decided to leave it on. At least for the moment he wouldn't have to make any decisions about cabin pressure and oxygen.

  The alarms—all of them—had now become impatient with him. They had moved from console and wall and had invaded his guts and brain like barbed parasites. "Xeris and Mord," he groaned.

  He reached for his heat-suit and simultaneously glanced at the ceiling meter. How long had he been under? Forty cycles. Long time. He closed the suit up and clumped over to the console. First turn off thatpflicht alarm. Now back to the tail of the ship.

  Air pressure apparently holding. Which meant the hole in the ship wall self-sealed in good order. The missile—a meteorite?—couldn't have been too big. So why hadn't internal automatic repair handled the problem? As he rounded the passage, the answer literally hit him in the face. A jet of oil struck his visor. The pin hackles on his neck and face stood out in panic. By reflex his hands grabbed the valve wheel and extinguished the flow. He wiped his visor with his sleeve. "By the egg that bore me!" He felt sick. How much fluid had he lost? From the looks of the balls of glop floating weightlessly around him, at least half. How was it possible? Not just one leak? He played the inspection light along the piping array. The whole tubular system was dripping. Some of the holes were big enough to see. Others were microscopic, hiding behind tiny globules of fluid. The meteorite had evidently struck a brittle section of the ship wall, which then had imploded into a thousand high-velocity fragments. He had warned Maintenance last time in. The skin was fatiguing. The chief mechanic had laughed at him.

  He sighed and looked around. Oil everywhere. Mocking clusters. All sizes.

  Where could he find make-up fluid in this Zaforsaken corner of the galaxy? And repair-tape? He'd used the last of his tape on the solar batteries… how many cycles ago?

  "Khor," he muttered gloomily, "you sorry misbegotten space scavenger, you are in serious trouble." He'd have to land. Very funny. (You had to have a sense of humor for these collection missions.) To land, he'd have to find a planet. And not just any planet. One with a civilization sufficiently advanced to supply his needs.

  He shuffled back through the collection area, toward the control room. He passed the cage with the ten-legged carnivorous reptile, now quietly sleeping its drugged sleep in the corner. Past the telepathic tree that had tried to charm him into its gluey branches as its next meal. Past the floating head-size ball of fluff that seemed to have no mouth, no food, and no alimentary system, but which had doubled in size since he had first captured it on Sargus-VI. And finally the empty cage: "Featherless biped." Where in the name of Xippor the Remorseless was he to find such an unlikely specimen? You can at least try, the Supervisor had admonished him. There are a lot of unexplored planets out there.

  And so to the pilot-console, where he activated the chart screen. Nearest star… there we are. Yellow, medium size. Third generation. Has all ninety-two elements. How about planets? Big one. Too big. And too far out. Also that one with the gorgeous ring. No. The red one? No air. Next. There's one… plenty of water, probably good air. Life? Maybe. Civilization? Maybe. Go on. Two more. Both too hot. Back up to III. No choice, really. I'm going in.

  2. Ne-tiy Introspects

  Ne-tiy knelt and stared into the mirroring surface of the lotus-pool. She liked what she saw: a young woman of excellent figure, with a face possibly bordering on the beautiful. That figure was sheathed in the classic linen tube, falling almost to her sandals, and supported by broad shoulder straps covering her breasts.

  She touched her
cheeks just below the eyes. There was a certain sadness about her eyes. She would like to use a little kohl at the corners for cheerful emphasis, and perhaps a little red iron oxide to highlight her cheeks, but her owner, the great priest, had strictly forbidden it. "You live for one thing, and that is not to adorn yourself." And what was that one thing? If and when the priest gave the signal, she was to offer the poisoned wine to a certain person.

  She tried hard not to think about it. But it was no use. She could think of nothing else.

  The priest, who served only the sun-god Horus, had bought her in the slave market at On, ten years ago. Her parents had been imprisoned for debt, and she had been turned over to the temple of the cat goddess, Bast. And then things had become blurred. She remembered she had cried a lot. Things had been done to her. In the end she knew only fear, hate, and that she was going to endure.

  And then the great inquisitor priest, Hor-ent-yotf, had bought her, and had taught her certain skills. "You will enter the house of the Librarian," he had said. "You will listen to all that he does and says."

  "Why, my lord?"

  "Why is not your concern."

  But she knew why. Hor-ent-yotf (the name meant avenger of the father of Horus) was licensed by the Greek pharaoh to sniff out heresy and impiety in the low and the high. Especially in the high, for they were the most influential. Anything demeaning the sun-god Horus was suspect. The penalty was death. She shivered.

  If she were called upon to kill Eratosthenes, what would she do?

  For six months she had lived as a trusted servant in his house. He knew horses, and had taught her. She had driven his chariot. He liked that. His family raised thoroughbreds, back in Cyrene, where the pasturage was rich and blue-green. When she drove with him, her body rubbed against his within the light wicker framework of the vehicle. Something had awakened within her. And now it had come to this: to be near him was torture, and not to be near him was worse.

  She stared down into the pool and passed her fingertips slowly over her abdomen. "How can I ever bear his child? He doesn't know I exist. I need to be rich. I need exalted office. High priestess of some god or other. But it is hopeless, for I am nothing, and I will remain nothing."

  A shadow fell on the water. She arose and turned slowly, impassively, head bowed. She did not need to look up. She saw without seeing; the shaven bald pate, eyes lengthened by dark cosmetics, the thin pleated linen skirt with cape, the leopard skin, complete with claws, tail, and fanged, glaring head. His hands hung at his sides. Her eyes rested on his long fingernails.

  On his right hand he wore three deaths, shaped as rings, each with its tiny jeweled capsule. First was the copper ring, which had a capsule shaped as Set, the god of darkness. On the middle finger was the silver ring, bearing the face of the evil goddess Sekhmet, who slew Osiris. Finally was the gold ring, on his fourth finger. Its capsule was a sardonic bow to the Greek conquerors, for it bore the face of their god Charon, who ferried their dead across the River Styx to Hades.

  The faint north wind moved a sharp blanket of incense around her face. She realized that it had been the smell that had announced him.

  "Where is he?" said Hor-ent-yotf.

  "He has gone forth into the streets, my lord."

  "When does he return?"

  " In the afternoon.''

  "I have reason to think he has found the directions for the tomb of the heretic pharaoh Tut-ankh-amun. Has he mentioned this?"

  "No, my lord."

  "Be watchful."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "There is another matter. In a secluded courtyard at the Library he is making a measurement of the disc of Horus. Listen carefully. Let me know if he says anything about it."

  "As my lord wishes." She listened to the sandals crunching away down the pea-gravel path. Then she turned back to the pool, as though trying to hide in the beauty of the flowered rim. The Greeks had brought strange and beautiful flowers to Alexandria: asphodels, marigolds, a tiny claret-colored vetch, irises purple and deep blue. Purple and white anemones, scarlet poppies.

  She wished she were a simple, mindless blossom, required only to be beautiful.

  Ah, Hor-ent-yotf, great Avenger, thou demi-god, I know you well. Your mother was impregnated by the ka of Horus the hawk-god, divine bearer of the sun disc. Flights of golden hawks whirred over your house at your birth, calling and whistling to you. So it was said. As a boy apprentice in the temple at Thebes, you saw the glowing god descend from the sun, and he spoke to you. Avenge me, the god said. Find the tomb of Tut-ankh-amun, who married the third daughter of the heretic pharaoh Ikhnaton, who denied me. Destroy that tomb, and all that is within.

  So it was said.

  She shivered again.

  3. Rabbi Ben Shem

  Eratosthenes had been wandering the streets for an hour, vaguely aware of the sights, sounds, and smells of Alexandria at high noon.

  The Brucheum, the royal quarter of the great city, was totally Greek, as Greek as Athens, or Corinth, or even far Cyrene, where he was born. As thoroughly Greek as the great Alexander had intended, when he strode about this shore opposite the Isle of Pharos, a bare eighty years ago and said: build the walls here, the temples there, yonder the theatre, gymnasium, baths… The mole, the Heptastadia, was built from the city out to the island, dividing the sea into two great harbors. Ptolemy Philadelphus kept his warships in the eastern harbor. Commercial shipping used the western harbor.

  Alexandria, the greatest city in the world, the Gem of the Nile, the Pearl of the Mediterranean, was indeed Greek. But more than Greek. All races lived here. Egyptians, of course. And Jews, Nubians, Syrians, Persians, Romans, Carthaginians. (Those last two were quite civil to each other here in the city, though several thousand stadia to the west their countrymen were happily slaughtering each other on Sicily and adjacent seas.)

  He was passing now through the northeast sector, along the Street of the Hebrews. The Jews had a specially elegant quarter, a politeumata set aside for them by Alexander himself, in gratitude for their help in his Persian campaigns.

  "Greetings."

  He looked up. Was someone calling to him? Yes, there was the rabbi, Elisha ben Shem, coming down the steps of the synagogue. "Greetings, noble Eratosthenes!"

  The geometer-librarian bowed graciously. "Peace to the House of Shem! How goes the translation?"

  "Oh, very well indeed." The priest stroked his flowing silver beard and chuckled. "Why I laugh, I do not know. It really isn't funny."

  Eratosthenes looked doubtful. "Well, then… ?"

  Ben Shem grinned. "You have to be Jewish to see it, my friend. You and I converse in Greek, the tongue of the Hellenes. I am also fluent in classical Hebrew, in which our Holy Scriptures were written. I can also speak Aramaic and the other local dialects of Judea. But did you know there are forty thousand Jews here in Alexandria who speak, read, and write Greek and only Greek? They can't read a word of the Books of Moses, and the Psalms of David are mysteries to them."

  "I knew that," said the man of measures. "That's why Ptolemy brought seventy scholars from Jerusalem here to translate the Hebrew texts into Greek. Seventy. The Septuagint. Actually, seventy-two, wasn't it?"

  Ben Shem sighed. "Ah, Eratosthenes my dear boy. So learned. So earnest. But think of it! Jews translating Hebrew into Greek for Jews. Where is the subtle sense of irony, the love of paradox, that set your ancestors apart from peasant minds? If you had your way, Achilles would overtake Zeno's hare with a single pulse beat."

  "Rabbi…"

  "Oh, never mind." He turned his head a little. "You are still attempting to determine the size and shape of the Earth?"

  "Yes, still at it."

  "Are you close to a solution?"

  "Now, rabbi. You know I must report all findings first to his majesty."

  "Yes, of course." He cleared his throat. "You will be at the palace tonight? To celebrate the coming of the Nile flood?" They stopped before the residence of the priest.

  "I'll be
there," said Eratosthenes.

  4. The Stone Cutter

  He crossed the great intersection at the magnificent mauso-lea. Here Alexander was laid to rest, in a marvelous glass-and-gold coffin. And in the tomb adjacent, the first Ptolemy. Beyond, to the west, lay the Rhacotis, originally the haunt of fishermen and pirates. Now, however, eighty years after the Conqueror had paced out the unborn city, it was^full of the run-down shops and abodes of artisans, poets (mostly starving), and astrologers, raffish theatres, baths (some clean), slums, and certain facilities for sailors.

  And so into the Street of Stone Cutters, and the first shop on the corner. He could hear the strike of chisels well before he entered the work yard. In the center, four slaves stripped to loin cloths chipped away at a copy of the Cnidus Aphrodite. The assistant project master hovered about the crew anxiously, calling, coaxing, occasionally screaming. They all ignored the newcomer. Eratosthenes shrugged and passed on into the shop. Little bells rang somewhere and the man behind the counter looked up, squinting and coughing. Stone dust had long ago impaired his eyes and lungs. "Ah, Eratosthenes," he muttered, rising. "Greetings, and welcome to my humble shop." He groaned softly as he tried to bow.

  "And greetings to you, good Praphicles. I trust the gods are kind?"

  "Alas, great geometer, business is terrible. When our present commissions are completed I expect that we shall starve."

  The visitor smiled. Business was always terrible and starvation always lay in wait for the old fraud. Even in his semi-blindness Praphicles was still the most highly skilled of stone workers in the quarter. He turned away clients, and he owned half the real estate on the waterfront.

  "Well, then," said Eratosthenes dryly, "before the gods utterly abandon you, perhaps we had better conclude our business."

  "Ah yes." The ancient master reached down into a cupboard under the counter, pulled out the work, and laid it carefully on the cedar surface.

  It was a statuette of the Titan Atlas, bent, with arms arched backwards and up, as though already holding his great burden, Earth. It was cut from the famous red granite of Syene. The base held an inscription in Greek, which Eratosthenes verified by reading slowly to himself.