The Best Science Fiction And Fantasy Of The Year Part 17

At a pace that required little energy, it pressed ahead in half-meter strides. Decades pa.s.sed before it finally accepted what was obvious: that while the s.h.i.+p was undoubtedly perfect, it was by no measure perfectly smooth and eternally round. Rising from the hull was not one gigantic tower, but several. The nearest tower was blackish-gray and too vast to measure from a single perspective. Occasionally a small light appeared on the summit, or several tiny flecks of light danced beside its enormous bulk, and there were sudden spikes in dense, narrow radio noise that tasted like a language. Various explanations occurred to the walker. From where these possibilities came, it could not say. Maybe they arose from the instincts responsible for its persistent fears. But like never before, it was curious. It started to move once again, slowly and tirelessly pus.h.i.+ng closer, and that was when it noticed how one of the more distant towers had begun to tip, looking as if it was ready to collapse on its side. And shortly after that remarkable change in posture, the tower suddenly let loose a deep rumble, followed by a scorching, sky-piercing fire.

But of course: these were the s.h.i.+p's engines. No other explanation was necessary, and in another moment, the walker absorbed its new knowledge, a fresh set of beliefs gathering happily around the s.h.i.+p's continued perfection. Fusion boosted by antimatter threw a column of radiant blue-white plasmas into the blackness, scorching the vacuum. This was a vision worth admiration. Here was power beyond anything that the walker had ever conceived of. But soon the engine fell back into sleep, and after thorough reflection, it decided to choose another random direction, and another, selecting them until it was steering away from the gigantic rocket nozzles.

If objects this vast had missed its scrutiny, what else was hiding beyond the horizon?

Walk, walk, walk.

But its pace began to slow even more. Flying vessels and many busy machines were suddenly common near the engines, and some kind of animal was building cities of bubbled gla.s.s. An invasion was underway. There were regions of intense activity and considerable radio noise, and each hazard had to be avoided, or if the situation demanded, crossed without revealing its presence.

Ages pa.s.sed before the engines vanished beyond the horizon. A bright red star became the walker's beacon, its guide, and it followed that rich light until the ancient sun sickened and went nova, flinging portions of its flawed skin out into the cooling, dying vacuum.

Younger stars appeared, climbing from the horizon as the walker pressed forward. A second sky was always hiding behind the hyperfiber body. The walker felt the play of gravity and then the hard twisting, the s.h.i.+p leaving the line that had been followed without interruption for untold billions of years. After that, the sky was changed. The vacuum was not nearly so empty, or quite as chilled, and even a patient ent.i.ty with nothing to do but count points of light could not estimate just how many stars were rising into its spellbound gaze.

A galaxy was approaching. One great plate of three hundred billion suns and trillions of worlds was about to intersect with a vessel that had wandered across the universe, every previous nudge and great reaches of nothingness leading to this place and this rich, perfect moment.

And here the walker stood, on the brink of something entirely new.

There was a line upon the hull that perhaps no one else could have noticed. Not just with their eyes and the sketchy knowledge available, no. But the walker recognized the boundary where the hull that it knew surrendered to another. Suddenly the thick perfect hyperfiber was replaced with a thicker but considerably more weathered version of faultless self. Even in the emptiest reaches of the universe, ice and dust and other nameless detritus wandered in the dark.

These tiny worlds would crash down on the s.h.i.+p's hull, always at a substantial fraction of light-speed, and not even the best hyperfiber could shrug aside that kind of withering power. Stepping onto the s.h.i.+p's leading face, the walker immediately noticed gouges and debris fields and then the little craters that were eventually obscured by still larger craters-holes reaching deep into the hard resilient hull. Most of the wounds were ancient, although hyperfiber hid its age well. All but the largest craters were unimportant to the s.h.i.+p's structure, their c.u.mulative damage barely diminis.h.i.+ng its abiding strength. But some of the wounds showed signs of repair and reconditioning. The walker discovered one wide lake of liquid hyperfiber, the patch still curing when it arrived on the smooth sh.o.r.eline. Kneeling down, it looked deep into the still-reflective surface. For the first time in memory, there was another waiting to be seen. But the ent.i.ty felt little interest in its own appearance. What mattered was the inescapable fact that someone-some agent or benevolent hand-was striving to repair what billions of years of abuse had achieved. A constructive force was at work upon the s.h.i.+p. A healing force, seemingly. Enthralled, the walker looked at the young lake and the reflected Milky Way, measuring the patch's dimensions. Then it examined the half-cured skin, first with fresh eyes and then with a few respectful touches. A fine grade of hyperfiber was being used, almost equal to the original hull.Which implied that caretakers were striving to do what was good and make certain that their goodness would endure.

The endless wandering continued.

Eventually the galaxy was overhead, majestic but still inconsequential. The suns and invisible worlds were little more than warm dust flung across the emptiness, and still all that mattered was the s.h.i.+p, dense and rich beyond all measure. Walk, and walk. And walk. And then it found itself on the edge of another crater-the largest scar yet on the hull-and for the first time ever, it followed a curving line, the crater's frozen lip defining its path.

Bodies and machines were working deep inside the ancient gouge.

From unseen perches, it watched the activity, studying methods and guessing reasons when it could not understand. The vacuum crackled with radio noise. The sense of words began to emerge, and because the skill might prove useful, the walker committed to memory what it understood of the new language. Hundreds of animals worked inside the crater-humans they called themselves, dressed inside human-shaped machines. And accompanying them were tens of thousands of pure machines, while on the lip stood a complex of prefabricated factories and fusion reactors and more humans and more robots dedicated to no purpose but repairing one minuscule portion of the s.h.i.+p's forward face.

As it kneeled there, unseen, a bit of cosmic dirt fell with a brilliant flash of light, leaving a tiny crater inside the giant one.

The danger was evident, but there were blessings too. The walker slipped across a narrow track lain on the unbroken hull, presumably leading from some far place to the crater's edge. The track was a superconductive rail that allowed heavy tanks to be dragged here, each tank filled with uncured, still-liquid hyperfiber. From another hiding place, the walker watched as a long train of tanks arrived and subsequently drained before being set on a parallel track and sent away. Before the third was empty, it understood enough to appreciate just how difficult this work was. Liquid hyperfiber was fickle, eager to form lasting bonds but susceptible to flaws and catastrophic embellishments. Down in the crater, a brigade of artisans was struggling to repair the damage-a tiny pock on the vast bow of the s.h.i.+p-and their deed, epic as well as tiny, was ringing testament to the astonis.h.i.+ng gifts of those who had first built the Great s.h.i.+p.

All but one of the empty tanks was sent home. The exception was damaged in a collision and then pushed aside, abandoned. Curious about that silver tank, the walker approached and then paused, crept closer and paused again, making certain that no traps were waiting, no eyes watching. Then it slipped near enough to touch the crumbled body. That innate talent for mechanical affairs was awakened again. Using thought and imaginary tools, it rebuilt the empty vessel. Presumably those repairs were waiting for a more convenient time. Unless the humans meant to leave their equipment behind, which was not an unthinkable prospect, judging by the trash already scattered about this increasingly crowded landscape.

One end of the tank was cracked open, the interior exposed. In slow, nearly invisible steps, the walker slipped inside. The cylinder was slightly less than a kilometer in length. Ignoring every danger, the walker pa.s.sed through the ugly fissure, and once inside, it balanced on a surface designed to feel slick to every possible material. Yet it managed to hold its place, retaining its pose, peering into the darkness until it was sure that it was alone, and then it let light seep out of its own body, filling the long volume with a soft cobalt-blue glow.

Everywhere it looked, it saw itself looking back.

Reflected on the round wall were distorted images of what might be a machine, or perhaps was something else. Whatever it was, the walker had no choice but to stare at itself. This was indeed a trap, it realized, but instead of a secret door slamming shut, the mechanism worked by forcing an ent.i.ty to gaze upon its own shape and its nature, perhaps for the first time.

What it beheld was not unlovely.

But how did it know beauty? What aesthetic standard was it employing? And why carry such a skill among its instincts and talents?

A long time pa.s.sed before the walker could free itself from the trap. But even after it climbed back onto the open hull, escape proved difficult. It slinked away for a good distance and then stopped, and then it walked farther before turning back again. Where did this obligation come from, this need to stare at an empty, ruined tank? Why care about a soulless object that would never function again? How could that piece of ruin bother it so? And why, even after walking far enough to hide both the tank and the crater beyond the horizon...why did its mind insist on returning again and again to an object that others had casually and unnecessarily cast aside?

3.

It walked. It counted steps. It had reached two million four hundred thousand and nine steps when humans suddenly appeared in their swift cars. The invaders settled within a hundred meters of the walker. With a storm of radio talk and the help of robots, they quickly erected a single unblinking eye and pointed it straight above. The walker hid where it happened to be, filling a tiny crater. Unnoticed, it lay motionless as the new telescope was built and tested and linked to the growing warning system.And then the humans left, but the walker remained inside its safe hole, sprouting an array of increasingly powerful eyes.

The sky might be untrustworthy, but there was beauty to the lie. The Great s.h.i.+p was plunging into a galaxy that was increasingly brilliant and complex and dangerous. More grit and chunks of wayward ice slammed against the hull, and the bombardment would only strengthen as the s.h.i.+p sliced into the thick curling limb of suns. But the humans were answering the dangers with increasingly powerful weapons. Telescopes watched for hazards. Then bolts of coherent light melted the incoming ices. Ballistic rounds pulverized asteroids. Sculpted EM fields slowed the tiniest fragments and shepherded them aside. There was splendor to that awful fight. Flashes and sparkles constantly surprised the lidless eyes. Ionized plasmas generated squawks and whistles reaching across the spectrum. An accidental music grew louder, urgent and carefree. No defensive system was unbreakable. Death threatened everything foolish enough to walk upon the bow. Each moment might be its last. But the scene deserved fascination and wonder. It stared upwards, and it grew antennae and listened, and its mind began to believe that this violent magic had a rhythm, an elegant inescapable logic, and that whatever note and whichever color came next could have been foreseen.

That was when the voice began.

At least that was the moment when the walker finally took notice of the soft, soft whispers.

These mutterings were not part of the sky. Intuition told the walker that much. Perhaps the voice rose from the hull, or maybe it came from the chill vacuum. But what mattered more than its origin was the quiet swift terror that defined its presence-an inarticulate, nearly inaudible murmur that came when it was unexpected and vanished before any response could be offered.

Following the first eleven incidents, the walker remained silently anxious.

But the twelfth whisper was too much. With a radio mouth formed for the occasion, and using the human language that it had learned over the last centuries, the walker called out, "What are you? What do you want?" And when nothing replied, it added, "Do not bother me. Leave me alone."

By chance or by kindness, the request was honored.

The walker rose and again wandered across the bow. But after witnessing several jarring impacts, it returned to the stern, ready to accept the safety afforded by the s.h.i.+p's enormous bulk. But there were even more humans than before, and they brought endless traffic on what had been delicious, seemingly infinite emptiness. Following a twisting, secretive line, the walker journeyed to the nearest engine, and with some delight, it touched the mountainous nozzle at its base. But machines were everywhere, investigating and repairing, and the human chatter was busy and endless, jabbering about subjects and names and places and times that made no sense at all.

Where the bow and stern joined, stars.h.i.+ps were landing. The walker tracked them by their bright little rockets. Hunkering behind piles of trash, it watched the slow taxis and quicker streaks.h.i.+ps drop onto the hull, and then enormous doors would pull open, and the visitors would vanish. The walker had never seen a s.p.a.ceport, never even imagined such a thing was possible. Once again, the Great s.h.i.+p was far more than it pretended to be. Creeping even closer, it estimated the size of the incoming vessels. Considering how many pa.s.sengers might be tucked inside each little s.h.i.+p, it was easy to understand why the hull had grown crowded. The human animals were falling from the sky, coming here for the honor of living inside their bubble cities on the hull of this lost, unknowable relic.

Finally, in slow patient stages, the walker crept to the edge of a vast door, and with a single glance, its foolishness was revealed. The Great s.h.i.+p was more than its armored hull. What the ent.i.ty had a.s.sumed to be hyperfiber to the core was otherwise. Inside the s.p.a.ceport, it saw a vast column of air and light and warm wet bodies moving by every means and for no discernable purpose. This was motion, swift and busy and devoid of any clear purpose. Humans were just one species among a mult.i.tude, and beneath the hull, the s.h.i.+p was pierced with tunnels and doorways and hatches and diamond-windows, and that was just what the briefest look provided before it flattened out and slowly, cautiously crawled away.

The s.h.i.+p was hollow.

And judging by the evidence, it was inhabited by millions and maybe billions of organic ent.i.ties.

These unwanted revelations left it shaken. Months were required to sneak away from the port. Unseen, it returned to the bow face and the beautiful sky, accepting the dangers for the illusion of solitude. But the ancient craters were being swiftly erased now. The s.h.i.+p's lasers were pummeling most of the cometary debris that dared pa.s.s nearby, and the repair crews were swift and efficient now. The pitted, cracked terrain was vanis.h.i.+ng beneath smooth perfection. The new hyperfiber proved fresh and strong, affording few hiding places even for a wanderer who could hide nearly anywhere. By necessity, every motion was slow. Was studied. But even then, a nearby robot would notice a presence, and maybe EM hands would reach out, trying to touch what couldn't be seen; and by reflex, the walker stopped living and stopped thinking, hiding away inside itself as it pretended to be nothing but another patch lost among the billions.

Eventually it came upon a freshly made crater, too small to bring humans immediately but large enough to let it walk down inside the wounded hull.

A brief, sharp ridge stood in its way-the relic of chaotic, billion-degree plasmas. After five hours of careful study, the walker slowly crossed the ridge. Humans never came alone to these places, and there was no sign of any machine. But standing on the ridgeline, urgency took hold. Something here was wrong. And what was wrong felt close. The walker began to lower itself, trying to vanish. But then a strong voice said, "There you are."

It hunkered down quickly.

Then with amus.e.m.e.nt, someone said, "I see you."

The voice-the mysterious and uninvited phenomena-was always quieter than this. It has always been a whisper, and far less comprehensible. Perhaps the young crater helped shape its words. Perhaps the bowl with its sharp refrozen hyperfiber lip lent strength and focus.

In myriad ways, the walker began to melt into the knife-like ridge.

Yet the voice only grew louder-a radio squawk wrapped around the human language. With some pleasure, she said, "You cannot hide from me."

"Leave me be," the walker answered.

"But you're the one disturbing me, stranger."

"And I have told you," the walker insisted. "Before, I told you that I wish to be alone. I must be alone. Don't pester me with your noise."

"Oh," the voice replied. "You believe we've met. Don't you?"

Curiosity joined the fear. A new eye lifted just a little ways, scanning the closest few meters.

"But I've never spoken to you," the voice continued. "You've made a mistake. I don't know whose voice you've been hearing, but I'm rather certain that it wasn't mine."

"Who are you?" the walker asked.

"My name is Wune."

"Where are you?"

"Find the blue-white star on the horizon," she said.

It complied, asking, "Are you that star?"

"No, no." Wune could do nothing but laugh for a few moments. "Look below it. Do you see me?"

Except for a few crevices and delicate wrinkles, the crater floor was flat. Standing at the far end was a tiny figure clad in hyperfiber. An arm lifted now. What might have been a hand waved slowly, the gesture purely human.

"My name is Wune," the stranger repeated.

"Are you human?" the ent.i.ty whispered nervously.

"I'm a Remora," said Wune. Then she asked, "What exactly are you, my friend? Since I don't seem to recognize your nature."

"My nature is a mystery," it agreed.

"Do you have a name?"

"I am," it began. Then it hesitated, considering this wholly original question. And with sudden conviction, it said, "Alone." It rose up from the ridge, proclaiming, "My name is Alone."

4.

"Come closer, Alone."

It did nothing.

"I won't hurt you," Wune promised, the arm beckoning again. "We should study each at a neighborly distance. Don't you agree?"

"We are close enough," the walker warned, nearly two kilometers of vacuum and blasted hyperfiber separating them.

The Remora considered his response. Then with an amiable tone, she agreed, "This is better than being invisible to one another. I'll grant you that."

For a long while, neither spoke.

Then Wune asked, "How good are those eyes? What do you see of me?"

Alone stared only at the stranger, each new eye focused on the lifesuit made of hyperfiber and the thick diamond faceplate and what lay beyond. Alone had seen enough humans to understand their construction, their traditions. But what was human about this face was misplaced. The eyes were beneath the mouth and tilted on their sides. The creature's flesh was slick and cold in appearance, and it was vivid purple. The long hair on the scalp was white with a hint of blue, rather like the brightest stars, and that white hair began to lift and fall, twirl and straighten, as if an invisible hand was playing with it.

"I don't know your species," Alone confessed.

"But I think you do," Wune corrected. "I'm a human animal, and a Remora too."

"You are different from the others."

"What others?" she inquired.

"The few that I have seen."

"You spied on us inside the big crater. Didn't you?" The mouth smiled, exposing matching rows of perfect human teeth. "Oh yes, you were noticed. I know that you strolled up to that busted tank and climbed inside before walking away again."

"You saw me?"

"Not then, but later," she explained. "A security AI was riding the tank. It was set at minimal power, barely alive. Which probably kept you from noticing it. We didn't learn about you until weeks later, when we stripped the tank for salvage and the AI woke up."

Shame took hold. How could it have been so careless?

"I know five other occasions when you were noticed," Wune continued. "There have probably been more incidents. I try to hear everything, but that's never possible. Is it?" Then she described each sighting, identifying the place and time when these moments of incompetence occurred.

"I wasn't aware that I was seen," it stated.

Ignorance made its failures feel even worse.

"You were barely seen," Wune corrected." A ghost, a phantom. Not real enough to be taken seriously."

"You mentioned a s.p.a.ceport," it said.

"I did."

"Where is this port?"

Wune pointed with authority, offering a precise distance.

"I don't remember being there," Alone admitted.

"Maybe we made a mistake," she allowed.

"But I did visit a different port." With care, it sifted through its memories. "I might have troubles with my memory," it confessed.