Best Science Fiction of the Year 14

by Terry Carr (ed)

  In another twenty steps, the bracelet fell off her wrist. The guard snapped it neatly from the air and disappeared. Despair closed in on her again. Tory, my love! And since there was no hope of sleep, she kept on trudging up the terraces, back toward Hans's rathskeller, for another bellyful of wine.

  There was a small crowd seated about the rock that served Hans as a table, lit by a circle of hologram-generated fairy lights. Father Landis was there, and drinking heavily. "Tomorrow I file my report," she announced. "The synod is pulling out of this, withdrawing funding."

  Hans sighed, took a long swig of his own wine, winced at its taste. "I guess that's it for the Star Maker project, huh?"

  Landis crossed her fingers. "Pray God." Elin, standing just outside the circle, stood silently, listening.

  "I don't ever want to hear that name again," a tech grumbled.

  "You mustn't confuse God with what you've just seen," Landis admonished.

  "Hey, come on!" Hans said. "She moved time backwards or something. I saw it myself. This place exploded—doesn't that prove something?"

  Landis grinned, reached out to ruffle his hair. "Sometimes I worry about you, Hans. You have an awfully small concept of God." Several of the drinkers laughed.

  He blushed, said, "No, really."

  "Well, I'll try to keep this"— she leaned forward, rapped her mug against the rock, "fill this up again, hey?—keep it simple. We had analysts crawl up and down Coral's description of the universe, and did you know there was no place in it anywhere for such things as mercy, hope, faith? No, we got an amalgam of substrates, supraprograms, and self-metaediting physics. Now what makes God superior to us is not just intellect—we've all known some damn clever bastards. And it's not just power, or I could go and buy an atomic device on the black market and start my own religion.

  "No, by definition God is my moral superior. Now I myself am but indifferently honest—but to Coral, moral considerations don't even exist. Get it?''

  Only Elin noticed the haunted, hopeless light in Landis's eyes or realized that she was spinning words effortlessly, without conscious control. Deep within, the woman was caught in a private crisis of faith.

  "Yeah, I guess." Hans scratched his head. "I'd still like to know just what happened between her and Tory there at the end."

  "I can answer that," a wetware tech said. The others turned to face her, and she smirked, the center of attention. "What the hell, they plant the censor blocks in us all tomorrow—this is probably my only chance to talk about it.

  "We reviewed all the tapes, and found that the original problem stemmed from a basic design flaw. Shostokovich should never have brought his ego along. The God state is very ego-threatening; he couldn't accept it. His mind twisted it, denied it, made it into a thing of horror. Because to accept it would mean giving up his identity." She paused.

  "Now we don't understand the why or how of what happened. But what was done is very clearly recorded. Coral came along and stripped away his identity."

  "Hogwash!" Landis was on her feet, belligerent and unsteady. "After all that happened, you can't say they don't have any identity! Look at the mess that Coral made to join Tory to her—that wasn't the work of an unfeeling, identity-free creature."

  "Our measurements showed no trace of identity at all," the tech said in a miffed tone.

  "Measurements! Well, isn't that just scientific as all get-out?" The priest's face was flushed with drunken anger. "Have any of you clowns given any thought to just what we've created here? This gestalt being is still young—a newborn infant. Someday it's going to grow up. What happens to us all when it decides to leave the island, hey? I—" She stopped, her voice trailing away. The drinkers were silent, had all drawn away from her.

  " 'Scuse me," she muttered. "Too much wine." And sat.

  "Well." Hans cleared his throat, quirked a smile. "Anybody for refills?"

  The crowd came back to life, a little too boisterous, too noisily, determinedly cheerful. Watching from the fringes, outside the circle of light, Elin had a sudden dark fantasy, a walking nightmare.

  A desk tech glanced her way. He had Tory's eyes. When he looked away, Tory smiled out of another's face. The drinkers shifted restlessly, chattering and laughing, like dancers pantomiming a party in some light opera, and the eyes danced with them. They flitted from person to person, materializing now here, now there, surfacing whenever an individual chanced to look her way.

  She heard a quiet voice say, "We were fated to be lovers."

  Go away, go away, go away, Elin thought furiously, and the hallucination ceased.

  After a moment spent composing herself, Elin quietly slipped around to where Landis sat. "I'm leaving in the morning," she said. The new persona had taken; they would not remove her facepaint until just before the lift up, but that was mere formality. She was cleared to leave.

  Landis looked up, and for an instant the woman's doubt and suffering were writ plain on her face. Then the mask was back, and she smiled. "Just stay away from experimental religion, hey kid?" They hugged briefly. "And remember what I told you about stubbing your toes."

  There was one final temptation to be faced. Sitting in the hut, Tory's terminal in her lap, Elin let the soothing green light of its alphanumerics wash over her. She thought of Tory, of his lean body under hers in the pale blue earthlight. "We were meant to be lovers," he'd said. She thought of life without him.

  The terminal was the only artifact Tory had left behind that held any sense of his spirit. It had been his plaything, his diary, and his toolbox, and its memory still held the Trojan horse programs he had been working with when he was—transformed.

  One of those programs, she knew, would make her a god.

  She stared up through the ivy at the domed sky. Only a few stars were visible between the black silhouetted leaves, and these winked off and on with the small movements she made breathing. She thought back to Coral's statement that Elin would soon join her, merging into the unselfed, autistic state that only Tory's meddling had spared her.

  "God always keeps her promises," Tory said quietly.

  Elin started, looked down, and saw that the grass to the far side of the hut was moving, flowing. Swiftly it formed the familiar, half-amused, half-embittered features of her lover, continuing to flow until all of his head and part of his torso rose Up from the floor.

  She was not half so startled as she would have liked to be. Of course the earlier manifestations of Tory had been real, not phantoms thrown up by her grief. They were simply not her style.

  Still, Elin rose to her feet apprehensively. "What do you want from me?"

  The loam-and-grass figure beckoned. "Come. It is time you join us."

  "I am not a program," Elin whispered convulsively. She backed away from the thing. "I can make my own decisions!"

  She turned and plunged outside, into the fresh, cleansing night air. It braced her, cleared her head, returned to her some measure of control.

  A tangle of honeysuckle vines on the next terrace wall up moved softly. Slowly, gently, they became another manifestation, of Coral this time, with blossoms for the pupils of her eyes. But she spoke with Tory's voice.

  "You would not enjoy godhood," he said, "but the being you become will."

  "Give me time to think!" she cried. She wheeled and strode rapidly away, out of the residential cluster, through a scattering of boulders, and into a dark meadow.

  There was a quiet kind of peace here, and Elin wrapped it about her.

  She needed that peace, for she had to decide between her humanity and Tory. It should have been an easy choice, but—the pain of being without.

  Elin stared up at the earth; it was a world full of pain. If she could reach out and shake all the human misery loose, it would flood all of creation, extinguishing the stars and poisoning the space between.

  There was, if not comfort, then a kind of cold perspective in that, in realizing that she was not alone, that she was merely another member of the commonality of pain
. It was the heritage of her race. And yet—somehow—people kept on going.

  If they could do it, so could she.

  Some slight noise made her look back at the boulder field. Tory's face was appearing on each of the stones, every face slightly different, so that he gazed upon her with a dozen expressions of love. Elin shivered at how alien he had become. "Your need is greater than your fear," he said, the words bouncing back and forth between faces. "No matter what you think now, by morning you will be part of us."

  Elin did not reply immediately. There was something in her hand—-Tory's terminal. It was small and weighed hardly at all. She had brought it along without thinking.

  A small, bleak cry came from overhead, then several others. Nighthawks were feeding on insects near the dome roof. They were too far, too fast, and too dark to be visible from here.

  "The price is too high," she said at last. "Can you understand that? I won't give up my humanity for you."

  She hefted the terminal in her hand, then threw it as far and as hard as she could. She did not hear it fall.

  Elin turned and walked away. Behind her, the rocks smiled knowingly.

  * * *

  FEARS

  Pamela Sargent

  A single scientific discovery can effect great changes in our history, as Pamela Sargent shows in this quietly powerful story of a not-very-distant future in which a pill has been perfected that enables parents to choose the sex of their children. What might that ability do to the structure of society?

  Pamela Sargent has edited the Women of Wonder anthologies, and has written such novels as The Sudden Star and The Alien Upstairs. Her new novel, Venus of Dreams, will be published this fall.

  * * *

  I was on my way back to Sam's when a couple of boys tried to run me off the road, banging my fender a little before they sped on, looking for another target. My throat tightened and my chest heaved as I wiped my face with a handkerchief. The boys had clearly stripped their car to the minimum, ditching all their safety equipment, knowing that the highway patrol was unlikely to stop them; the police had other things to worry about.

  The car's harness held me; its dashboard lights flickered. As I waited for it to steer me back onto the road, the engine hummed, choked, and died. I switched over to manual; the engine was silent.

  I felt numb. I had prepared myself for my rare journeys into the world outside my refuge, working to perfect my disguise. My angular, coarse-featured face stared back at me from the mirror overhead as I wondered if I could still pass. I had cut my hair recently, my chest was still as flat as a boy's, and the slightly padded shoulders of my suit imparted a bit of extra bulk. I had always been taken for a man before, but I had never done more than visit a few out-of-the-way, dimly lighted stores where the proprietors looked closely only at cards or cash.

  I couldn't wait there risking a meeting with the highway patrol. The police might look a bit too carefully at my papers and administer a body search on general principles. Stray women had been picked up before, and the rewards for such a discovery were great; I imagined uniformed men groping at my groin, and shuddered. My disguise would get a real test. I took a deep breath, released the harness, then got out of the car.

  The garage was half a mile away. I made it there without enduring more than a few honks from passing cars.

  The mechanic listened to my husky voice as I described my problem, glanced at my card, took my keys, then left in his tow truck, accompanied by a younger mechanic. I sat in his office, out of sight of the other men, trying not to let my fear push me into panic. The car might have to remain here for some time; I would have to find a place to stay. The mechanic might even offer me a lift home, and I didn't want to risk that. Sam might be a bit too talkative in the man's presence; the mechanic might wonder about someone who lived in such an inaccessible spot. My hands were shaking; I thrust them into my pockets.

  I started when the mechanic returned to his office, then smiled nervously as he assured me that the car would be ready in a few hours; a component had failed, he had another like it in the shop, no problem. He named a price that seemed excessive; I was about to object, worried that argument might only provoke him, then worried still more that I would look odd if I didn't dicker with him. I settled for frowning as he slipped my card into his terminal, then handed it back to me.

  "No sense hanging around here." He waved one beefy hand at the door. "You can pick up a shuttle to town out there, comes by every fifteen minutes or so."

  I thanked him and went outside, trying to decide what to do. I had been successful so far; the other mechanics didn't even look at me as I walked toward the road. An entrance to the town's underground garage was just across the highway; a small, glassy building with a sign saying "Marcello's" stood next to the entrance. I knew what service Marcello sold; I had driven by the place before. I would be safer with one of his employees, and less conspicuous if I kept moving; curiosity overcame my fear for a moment. I had made my decision.

  I walked into Marcello's. One man was at a desk; three big men sat on a sofa near one of the windows, staring at the small holo screen in front of them. I went to the desk and said, "I want to hire a bodyguard."

  The man behind the desk looked up; his mustache twitched. "An escort. You want an escort."

  "Call it whatever you like."

  "For how long?"

  "About three or four hours."

  "For what purpose?"

  "Just a walk through town, maybe a stop for a drink. I haven't been to town for a while, thought I might need some company."

  His brown eyes narrowed. I had said too much; I didn't have to explain myself to him. "Card."

  I got out my card. He slipped it into his outlet and peered at the screen while I tried to keep from fidgeting, expecting the machine to spit out the card even after all this time. He returned the card. "You'll get your receipt when you come back." He waved a hand at the men on the sofa. "I got three available. Take your pick."

  The man on my right had a lean, mean face; the one on the left was sleepy-eyed. "The middle guy."

  "Ellis."

  The middle man stood up and walked over to us. He was a tall black man dressed in a brown suit; he looked me over, and I forced myself to gaze directly at him while the man at the desk rummaged in a drawer and took out a weapon and holster, handing them to my escort.

  "Ellis Gerard," the black man said, thrusting out a hand.

  "Joe Segor." I took his hand; he gripped mine just long enough to show his strength, then let go. The two men on the sofa watched us as we left, as if resenting my choice, then turned back to the screen.

  We caught a shuttle into town. A few old men sat near the front of the bus under the watchful eyes of the guard; five boys got on behind us, laughing, but a look from the guard quieted them. I told myself again that I would be safe with Ellis.

  "Where to?" Ellis said as we sat down. "A visit to a pretty boy? Guys sometimes want escorts for that."

  "No, just around. It's a nice day—we could sit in the park for a while."

  "I don't know if that's such a good idea, Mr. Segor."

  "Joe."

  "Those crossdressers hang out a lot there now. I don't like it. They go there with their friends and it just causes trouble— it's a bad element. You look at them wrong, and then you've got a fight. It ought to be against the law."

  "What?"

  "Dressing like a woman. Looking like what you're not." He glanced at me. I looked away, my jaw tightening.

  We were in town now, moving toward the shuttle's first stop. "Hey!" one of the boys behind us shouted. "Look!" Feet shuffled along the aisle; the boys had rushed to the right side of the bus and were kneeling on the seats, hands pressed against the window; even the guard had turned. Ellis and I got up and changed seats, looking out at what had drawn the boys' attention.

  A car was pulling into a spot in front of a store. Our driver put down his magazine and slowed the bus manually; he obviously knew his passenger
s wanted a look. Cars were not allowed in town unless a woman was riding in one; even I knew that. We waited. The bus stopped; a group of young men standing outside the store watched the car.

  "Come on, get out," a boy behind me said. "Get out of the car."

  Two men got out first. One of them yelled at the loiterers, who moved down the street before gathering under a lamppost. Another man opened the back door, then held out his hand.

  She seemed to float out of the car; her long pink robe swirled around her ankles as she stood. Her hair was covered by a long, white scarf. My face grew warm with embarrassment and shame. I caught a glimpse of black eyebrows and white skin before her bodyguards surroSnded her and led her into the store.

  The driver pushed a button and picked up his magazine again; the bus moved on. "Think she was real?" one of the boys asked.

  "I don't know," another replied.

  "Bet she wasn't. Nobody would let a real woman go into a store like that. If I had a girl, I'd never let her go anywhere."

  "If I had a trans, I'd never let her go anywhere."

  "Those trans guys—they got it made." The boys scrambled toward the back of the bus.

  "Definitely a trans," Ellis said to me. "I can tell. She's got a mannish kind of face."

  I said, "You could hardly see her face."

  "I saw enough. And she was too tall." He sighed. "That's the life. A little bit of cutting and trimming and some implants, and there you are—you don't have to lift a finger. You're legally female."

  "It isn't just a little bit of cutting—it's major surgery."

  "Yeah. Well, I couldn't have been a transsexual anyway, not with my body." Ellis glanced at me. "You could have been, though."

  "Never wanted it."

  "It's not a bad life in some ways."

  "I like my freedom." My voice caught on the words.

  "That's why I don't like crossdressers. They'll dress like a woman, but they won't turn into one. It just causes trouble— you get the wrong cues."