Year's Best Scifi 6 Part 27

"Shhhhhh," Campbell said, but Allison went on crying. Campbell gazed over her heaving shoulder at the wall, covered with framed photos of Amy. Amy at six months, asleep on a pink blanket in a field of daisies. Amy at two, waving her moo-cow, a toddler so adorable that people had stopped Allison in the street to admire her. Amy at seven in a ballet tutu. Amy at twelve, riding her horse. Amy at sixteen in a prom dress, caught in a rare smile.

Amy, fourteen, came through the front door.

Allison didn't give her daughter a chance to attack first. "So there you are! You just missed the cops, Amy, telling us what you've done this time, and it's the last straw, do you hear me, young lady? We forgave you the awful school grades! We forgave you the rudeness and ingrat.i.tude and sullen self-centeredness! We even forgave you the shop-lifting, G.o.d help us! But this is over the line! Throwing rocks at cars! Someone could have been killed-how much more do you expect us to take from you?

Answer me!"

Amy said angrily, "I didn't do it!"

"You're lying! The cops said-"

"Allison, wait," Campbell said. "Amy, the cops said you were a suspect."

"Well, I didn't do it! Kristy and Jed did, but I went home! And I don't care if you believe me or not, you b.i.t.c.h!"

Allison gasped. Amy stormed through the living room, a lanky ma.s.s of fury in deliberately torn clothes, pins through her lip and eyebrow, purple lipstick smeared. She raced upstairs and slammed her bedroom door.

"Paul...oh,Paul... did you hear what she called me? Her mother?" Allison collapsed against him again, her slim body shaking so hard that Campbell's arms tightened to steady her.

But he felt shaky, too. This couldn't go on. The sullen rudeness, the fights, the breaking the law ...their lives were being reduced to rubble by a fourteen-year-old.

"Paul..." Allison sobbed, "do you remember how she used to be? Oh, G.o.d, the day she was born...remember? I was so happy I thought I'd die. And then how she was as a little girl, climbing on our laps for a cuddle...oh,Paul, I want my little girl back!"

"I know. I know, dearest."

"Don't you?"

He did. He wanted back the Amy who was so sweet, so biddable. Who thought he was the best daddy in the world. The feel of that light little body in his arms, the sweet baby smell at the back of her neck....

He said slowly, "She's fourteen now. Legal age."

Immediately, Allison stopped sobbing. She stood still against him. Finally she said, "It isn't as if she'd be without resources. The Hitchenses might take her in. Or somebody. And anyway, there are lots more like her out there." Allison's lower lip stuck out. "Might even do her good to learn how good she had it here with us!"

Campbell closed his eyes. "But we wouldn't know."

"You're d.a.m.n right we wouldn't know! She doesn't want any part of us, then I don't want any part of her!" Again, Allison leaned against him. "But it isn't that, Paul. You know it isn't. I just want my little girl back again! I want to cuddle my lost little girl! Oh, I'd give anything to cuddle Amy again! Don't you want that, too?"

Campbell did. And the present situation really wasn't fair to Allison, who'd never been strong.Allison's health was being affected. She shouldn't have to be broken by this spiteful stranger who'd developed in their midst in the last year. Allison had rights, too.

His wife continued to sob against his chest, but softly now. Campbell felt strong, in control. He could make it all right for his wife, for himself. For everybody.

He said, "There are three embryos left."

Three of six. Three frozen vials in the fertility clinic, all from the same in-vitro fertilization, stored as standard procedure against a failure to carry to term. Or other need. Three more versions of the same embryo, the product of forced division before the first implantation. Standard procedure, yes, all over the country.

"I'll throw her out tonight," he told Allison, "and call the clinic in the morning."

Steppenpferd

BRIAN W. ALDISS.

Brian W. Aldiss, The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction says, is "one of the SF field's two or three most prolific authors of substance, and perhaps its most exploratory." In 2000, Aldiss was given the Grand Master award of the Science Fiction Writers of America. The influence of his works is deep and widespread in SF. His Billion Year Spree, in which Aldiss proposed Mary Sh.e.l.ley as the progenitor of SF, is one of the most influential works of criticism ever published about SF. He burst into prominence in the late 1950s, and has never ceased to push the boundaries of SF since.

Over five decades, he has published more than 300 stories and a number of fine novels-high points include the cla.s.sics Hot-house, Frankenstein Unbound, and the h.e.l.liconia Trilogy- but he has written very few in recent years. In the last couple of years, Aldiss has published his autobiography ( The Twinkling of an Eye ) and a book of autobiographical postscript ( When the Feast is Finished -about the recent death of his wife, Margaret).

"Steppenpferd" (which contains perhaps a wordplay on Thomas Mann's t.i.tle, Steppenwolf ) is set on a distant planet in the distant future, where pieces of Earth (in this case, a fragment of 19th century Scandinavia) have been reconstructed by aliens and things are not as they seem. It was published in Fantasy & Science Fiction.

From a cosmological perspective, the sun was a solitary, isolated on the fringes of its galaxy. The supergiant belonged in spectral cla.s.s K5. Seen more closely, it appeared as a dull smoky globe, a candle about to gutter out, the smoke consisting of myriads of particles dancing in the solar magnetism.

Despite its size, it was a cold thing, registering no more than 3,600K. All about its girth, stretching far out along the plane of the ecliptic, a series of artificial spheres moved in attendance. Each of these spheres contained captive solar systems.

The species which brought the globes here over vast distances called themselves the Pentivanashenii, a word that eons ago had meant "those who once grazed." This species had cannibalized their own planets and gone forth into the great matrix of s.p.a.ce, returning to their home star only to deliver their prizes into orbit.

Father Erik Predjin walked out of the dormitory into the early light. In a short while, the monastery bell would toll and his twelve monks and as many novices would rise and go into the chapel for First Devotions. Until then, the little world of the island was his. Or rather, G.o.d's.

The low damp cold came through the birches at him. Father Predjin s.h.i.+vered inside his habit. He relished the bite of dawn. With slow steps, he skirted the stack of adzed timbers designated for the re-roofing, the piled stones with their numbers painted on which would eventually form part of the rebuilt apse. Ever and again, he looked up at the fabric of the old building to which, with G.o.d's guidance and hisown will, he was restoring spiritual life.

The monastery was still in poor condition. Some of its foundations dated from the reign of Olav the Peaceful in the eleventh century. The main fabric was of later date, built when the Slav Wends had sought refuge on the island.

What Father Predjin most admired was the southern facade. The arched doorway was flanked by blind arcading with deeply stepped molded columns. These were weather-worn but intact.

"Here," Father Predjin often told the so-called tourists, "you may imagine the early monks trying to recreate the face of G.o.d in stone. He is grand, ready to allow entrance to all who come to him, but sometimes blind to our miseries. And by now perhaps the Almighty is worn down by the uncertain Earthly weather."

The tourists shuffled at this remark. Some looked upward, upward, where, hazily beyond the blue sky, the sweep of metal sphere could be seen.

The father felt some small extra contentment this morning. He made no attempt to account for it.

Happiness was simply something that occurred in a well-regulated life. Of course, it was autumn, and he always liked autumn. Something about early autumn, when the leaves began to flee before a northern breeze and the days shortened, gave an extra edge to existence. One was more aware of the great spirit which informed the natural world.

A c.o.c.k crowed, celebrating the morning's freshness.

He turned his broad back on the ochre-painted building and walked down toward the sh.o.r.e by the paved path he had helped the brothers build. Here, he made his way along by the edge of the water. This meeting of the two elements of land and water was celebrated by a cascade of stones and pebbles. They had been shed from the flanks of retreating glaciers. Those mighty grindstones had polished them so that they lay glistening in the morning light, displaying, for those who cared to look, a variety of colors and origins. No less than the monastery, they were proof for the faithful of a guiding hand.

A dead fish lay silvery among the cobbles, the slight lap of the waves of the lake giving it a slight lifelike movement. Even in death, it had beauty.

Walking steadily, the father approached a small jetty. An old wooden pier extended a few meters into Lake Mannsjo, dripping water into its dark reflection. To this pier workers would come and, later, another boat with extra-galactic tourists. Directly across the water, no more than a kilometer away, was the mainland and the small town of Mannjer, from which the boats would arrive. A gray slice of pollution spread in a wedge from above the town, cutting across the black inverted image of mountains.

The father studied the mountains and the roofs of the town. How cunningly they resembled the real thing which once had been. He crossed himself. At least this little island had been preserved, for what reason he could not determine. Perhaps the day would come when all returned to normal- if he persevered in prayer.

On the water margin of the island lay old oil drums and remains of military equipment. The island had, until five years ago, been commandeered by the military for their own purposes. Father Predjin had erased most of the reminders of that occupation, the graffiti in the chapel, the bullet holes in the walls, the shattered trees. He was slow to permit these last military remains to be cleared. Something told him the old rusty landing craft should remain where it was, half sunk in the waters of the lake. Now that it had ceased to function, it was not out of harmony with its surroundings. Besides, no harm was done in reminding both brothers and the alien visitors of past follies-and the present uncertain nature of the world. Of the world and, he added to himself, of the whole solar system, now encased in that enormous sphere and transported....He knew not where.

Somewhere far beyond the galaxy. But not beyond the reach of G.o.d?

He breathed deeply, pleased by the lap-lap-lap of the waters of the lake. He could look west from his little island- the Lord's and his-to what had been Norway and a distant railway line. He could look east to the mountains of what had been Sweden. Lake Mannsjo lay across the border between the two countries. Indeed, the imaginary line of the border, as projected by rulers plied in Oslo and Stockholmministerial offices, cut across the Isle of Mannsjo and, indeed, right through the old monastery itself.

Hence its long occupation by the military, when territorial opinions had differed and the two Scandinavian countries had been at loggerheads.

Why had they quarreled? Why had they not imagined... well... the unimaginable ?

He knew the skimpy silver birches growing among the stones on the sh.o.r.e, knew one from the next: was amused to think of some as Norwegian, some as Swedish. He touched them as he went by. The mist-moistened papery bark was pleasing to his hand.

Now that the military had left, the only invaders of Mannsjo were those tourists. Father Predjin had to pretend to encourage their visits. A small boat brought them over, a boat which left Mannjer on the mainland promptly every summer morning, five days a week, and permitted the beings two hours ash.o.r.e.

In that time, the tourists were free to wander or pretend to wors.h.i.+p. And the novices, selling them food and drink and crucifixes, made a little money to help with the restoration fund.

The father watched the boat coming across the water and the grotesque horse-like beings slowly taking on human shape and affecting human clothing.

August was fading from the calendar. Soon there would be no more tourists. Mannsjo was less than five degrees south of the Arctic Circle. No tourists came in the long dark winter. They copied everything that had once been, including behavior.

"I shall not miss them," said the father, under his breath, looking toward the distant sh.o.r.e. "We shall work through the winter as if nothing has happened." He recognized that he would miss women visitors especially. Although he had taken the vow of chast.i.ty many years previously, G.o.d still permitted him to rejoice at the sight of young women, their flowing hair, their figures, their long legs, the sound of their voices. Not one of the order-not even pretty young novice Sankal-could match the qualities of women. Antelope qualities. But of course an illusion; in reality there were seven black ungainly limbs behind every deceiving pair of neat legs.

The beings entered his mind. He knew it. Sometimes he sensed them there, like mice behind the paneling of his room.

He turned his face toward the east, closing his eyes to drink in the light. His countenance was lean and tanned. It was the face of a serious man who liked to laugh. His eyes were generally a gray-blue, and the scrutiny he turned on his fellow men was enquiring but friendly: perhaps more enquiring than open: like shelves of books in a library, whose spines promise much but reveal little of their contents. It had been said by those with whom Father Predjin had negotiated for the purchase of the island that he confided in no one, probably not even his G.o.d.

His black hair, as yet no more than flecked by gray, was cut in pudding basin fas.h.i.+on. He was clean-shaven. About his lips played a sort of genial determination; his general demeanor also suggested determination. In his unself-conscious way, Erik Predjin did not realize how greatly his good looks had eased his way through life, rendering that determination less frequently exercised than would otherwise have been the case.

He thought of a woman's face he had once known, asking himself, Why were not men happier? Had not men and women been set on Earth to make one another happy? Was it because humanity had failed in some dramatic way that this extraordinary swarm of beings had descended, to wipe out almost everything once regarded as permanent?

How is it that the world was so full of sin that it was necessary to destroy it? Now those who sequestered themselves on Mannsjo would continue to do Him reverence. Attempt in their frailty to do Him reverence. To save the world and restore it to what once it was, and make it whole and happy again. "Without sin."

Cobbles crunched under his sandals. Hugging his body against the cold, he turned away from the water, up another path which climbed round a giant boulder. Here in a sheltered dell, hens clucked. Herewere gardens where the Order grew vegetables-potatoes especially-and herbs, and kept bees. All barely enough to sustain the company, but the Almighty approved of frugality. As the father walked among them, casting an expert gaze over the crops, the monastery bell started to toll. Without quickening his pace, he went on, under the apple trees, to his newly repaired church.

He said aloud as he went, clasping his hands together, "Thank you, O Lord, for another of your wonderful days through which we may live. And bless my fellow workers, that they also may taste your joy."

After the morning prayers came breakfast. Homemade bread, fish fresh from the lake, well water.

Enough to fill the belly.

Shortly after ten in the morning, Father Predjin and two of the brothers went down to the quay to meet the morning boat bringing the workers from Mannjer. The workers were voluntary labor. They appeared to include not only Scandinavians but men, mainly young, from other parts of Europe, together with a j.a.panese who had come to visit Mannsjo as a tourist two years ago and had stayed. While he was awaiting novitiate status, he lodged in Mannjer with a crippled woman.

Oh, they all had their stories. But he had seen them from his window, when they thought no one was looking, revert into that lumpish shape with those great trailing hands, seven-fingered, gray in color.

This was the father's secret: since he knew that these beings were asymmetrical, and not symmetrical, or nearly so, as were human beings, he understood that G.o.d had turned his countenance from them. In consequence, they were evil.

The monks welcomed the fake workers and blessed them. They were then directed to the tasks of the day. Few needed much instruction. Plasterers, carpenters, and stone masons carried on as previously.

Should I allow such alien and G.o.d-hating beings to partic.i.p.ate in the construction of G.o.d's edifice?

Will He curse us all for permitting this error?

Now a little urgency was added to the workers'usual businesslike manner; winter was coming. Over the drum of the main dome an almost flat tiled roof was being installed, closing it against the elements.

There was no money at present for a copper-clad dome it was hoped for, provided funds were forthcoming.

When the father had seen that all were employed, he returned to the main building and climbed a twisting stair to his office on the third floor.

It was a narrow room, lit by two round windows and furnished with little more than an old worm-eaten desk and a couple of rickety chairs. A Crucifix hung on the whitewashed wall behind the desk.

One of the novices came up to talk to Father Predjin about the question of heating in the winter. The problem arose every year at this time. As usual it remained unresolved.

Immediately next came Sankal. He must have been waiting on the stairs outside the door.

His Father gestured to him to take a seat, but the young man preferred to stand.

Sankal stood twisting his hands about his rough-woven habit, shy as ever but with the air of a young man who has something important to say and looks only for an opening.

"You wish to leave the order?" Father Predjin said, laughing to show he was joking and merely offering the chance for a response.

Julius Sankal was a pale and pretty youth with down on his upper lip. Like many of the other novices in Mannsjo, he had been given refuge by Predjin because the rest of the globe was disappearing.

In those days, Predjin had stood by his church and looked up at the night sky, to see the stars disappear as the sphere encased them bit by bit. And, as surely, the world was disappearing, bit by bit, to be replaced by a cheap replica-perhaps a replica without ma.s.s, to facilitate transport. Such things could only be speculated upon, with a burdened sense of one's ignorance and fear.

Sankal had arrived at Mannjer in the snow. And later had stolen a boat in order to cross to the island, to throw himself on the mercy of the ruinous monastery, and of its master. Now he had the job of baking the monastery's bread."Perhaps it is necessary I leave," the youth said. He stood with downcast eyes. Father Predjin waited, hands resting, lightly clasped, on the scarred top of his desk. "You see...I cannot explain. I am come to a wrong belief, father. Very much have I prayed, but I am come to a wrong belief."

"As you are aware, Julius, you are permitted to hold any one of a number of religious beliefs here.

The first important thing is to believe in a G.o.d, until you come to see the true G.o.d. Thus we light a tiny light in a world utterly lost and full of darkness. If you leave you go into a d.a.m.ned world of illusion."

The sound of hammering echoed from above them. New beams were going into the roof of the apse.

The noise almost drowned Sankal's response, which came quietly but firmly.

"Father, I am shy person, you know it. Yet am I at maturity. Always have many inward thoughts.

Now those thoughts move like a stream to this wrong belief." He hung his head.