Year's Best Scifi 8 Part 7

Even though the poem was not erotic, my male and female parts became increasingly excited. Ah! I was rubbing against myself. Ah! I was making soft noises! The poet and scribe could not feel this s.e.xual pleasure, of course, but the sight of the rest of me tumbling on the rug was distracting. Yes, neuters are clear-eyed and rational, but they are also curious; and nothing arouses their curiosity more than s.e.x. They stopped working on the poem and watched as I fondled myself.

5Only the scout remained detached from sensuality and went into the defecating closet. Coming out with a bucket of cold water, the scout poured it over my amorous bodies.

I sprang apart, yelling with shock.

"This is more magic," the scout said. "I did not know a spell inciting l.u.s.t could be worked at such a distance, but evidently it can. Every part of me that is male or female, go in the bathroom! Wash in cold water till the idea of s.e.x becomes uninteresting! As for my neuter parts-" The scout glared. "Get back to the poem!"

"Why has one part of me escaped the spell?" I asked the scout.

"I did not think I could lactate without laying an egg first, but the child's attempts to nurse have caused my body to produce milk. As a rule, nursing mothers are not interested in s.e.x, and this has proved true of me. Because of this, and the child's stubborn nursing, there is a chance of finis.h.i.+ng the poem. I owe this child a debt of grat.i.tude."

"Maybe," grumbled my male parts. The poet and scribe said, "I shall see."

The poem was done by sunset. That evening I recited it in the lord's hall. If I do say so myself, it was a splendid achievement. The wis.h.i.+k's cry was in it, as was the rocking up-and-down rhythm of a s.e.xually excited goxhat. The second gave the poem energy and an emphatic beat. As for the first, every line ended with one of the two sounds in the wis.h.i.+k's ever-repeating, irritating cry. Nowadays, we call this repet.i.tion of sound "rhyming." But it had no name when I invented it.

When I was done, the lord ordered several retainers to memorize the poem. "I want to hear it over and over," she said. "What a splendid idea it is to make words ring against each other in this fas.h.i.+on!

How striking the sound! How memorable! Between you and the traveling plumber, I will certainly be famous."

That night was spent like the first one, everyone except me feasting. I feigned indigestion and poured my drinks on the floor under the feasting table. The lord was tricky and liked winning. Who could say what she might order put in my cup or bowl, now that she had my poem?

When the last retainer fell over and began to snore, I got up and walked to the hall's main door.

Sometime in the next day or so, the lord would discover that her wizard had lost a part to death and that one of her paperweights was missing. I did not want to be around when these discoveries were made.

Standing in the doorway, I considered looking for the treadmill. Maybe I could free the prisoners.

They might be travelers like me, innocent victims of the lord's malice and envy and her desire for hot water on every floor. But there were likely to be guards around the treadmill, and the guards might be sober. I was only one goxhat. I could not save everyone. And the servant had said they were criminals.

I climbed the stairs quietly, gathered my belongings and the baby, and left through a window down a rope made of knotted sheets.

The sky was clear; the brilliant star we call Beacon stood above the high peaks, shedding so much light I had no trouble seeing my way. I set a rapid pace eastward. Toward morning, clouds moved in.

The Beacon vanished. Snow began to fall, concealing my trail. The baby, nursing on the scout, made happy noises.

Two days later, I was out of the mountains, camped in a forest by an unfrozen stream. Water made a gentle sound, purling over pebbles. The trees on the banks were changers, a local variety that is blue in summer and yellow in winter. At the moment, their leaves were thick with snow. "Silver and gold," my poet murmured, looking up.

The scribe made a note.

A wis.h.i.+k clung to a branch above the poet and licked its wings. Whenever it s.h.i.+fted position, snow came down.

"The wis.h.i.+k cleans wings As white as snow.

Snow falls on me, white As a wis.h.i.+k, "

the poet said. My scribe scribbled.

One of my cudgel-carriers began the discussion. "The Bane of Poets was entirely neuter. Fear of death made it crazy. Bent Foot was entirely male. Giving in to violence, he stole children from his neighbor. The last lord I encountered, the ruler of the heated keep, was female, malicious and unfair.

Surely something can be learned from these encounters. A person should not be one s.e.x entirely, but rather-as I am-a harmonious mixture of male, female, and neuter. But this child can't help but be a single s.e.x."

"I owe the child a debt of grat.i.tude," said my best scout firmly. "Without her, I would have had pain and humiliation, when the lord-a kind of lunatic-unrolled my testes, as she clearly planned to do. At best, I would have limped away from the keep in pain. At worst, I might have ended in the lord's treadmill, raising water from the depths to make her comfortable."

"The question is a good one," said my scribe. "How can a person who is only one s.e.x avoid becoming a monster? The best combination is the one I have: male, female, and both kinds of neuter. But even two s.e.xes provide a balance."

"Other people-besides these three-have consisted of one s.e.x," my scout said stubbornly. "Not all became monsters. It isn't s.e.x that has influenced these lords, but the stony fields and spiny mountains of Ibri, the land's cold winters and ferocious wildlife. My various parts can teach the child my different qualities: the valor of the cudgel-carriers, the coolness of poet and scribe, the female tenderness that the rest of me has. Then she will become a single harmony."

The scout paused. The rest of me looked dubious. The scout continued.

"Many people lose parts of themselves through illness, accident, and war; and some of these live for years in a reduced condition. Yes, it's sad and disturbing, but it can't be called unnatural. Consider aging and the end of life. The old die body by body, till a single body remains. Granted, in many cases, the final body dies quickly. But not always. Every town of good size has a Gram or Gaffer who hobbles around in a single self.

"I will not give up an infant I have nursed with my own milk. Do I wish to be known as ungrateful or callous? I, who have pinned all my hope on honor and fame?"

I looked at myself with uncertain expressions. The wis.h.i.+k shook down more snow.

"Well, then," said my poet, who began to look preoccupied. Another poem coming, most likely. "I will take the child to a creche and leave her there."

My scout scowled. "How well will she be cared for there, among healthy children, by tenders who are almost certain to be prejudiced against a mite so partial and incomplete? I will not give her up."

"Think of how much I travel," a cudgel-carrier said. "How can I take a child on my journeys?"

"Carefully and tenderly," the scout replied. "The way my ancestors who were nomads did.

Remember the old stories! When they traveled, they took everything, even the was.h.i.+ng pot. Surely their children were not left behind."

"I have bonded excessively to this child," said my scribe to the scout.

"Yes, I have. It's done and can't be undone. I love her soft baby-down, her four blue eyes, her feisty spirit. I will not give her up."

I conversed this way for some time. I didn't become angry at myself, maybe because I had been through so much danger recently. There is nothing like serious fear to put life into perspective. Now and then, when the conversation became especially difficult, a part of me got up and went into the darkness to kick the snow or to p.i.s.s. When the part came back, he or she or it seemed better.

Finally I came to an agreement. I would keep the child and carry it on my journeys, though half of me remained unhappy with this decision.

How difficult it is to be of two minds! Still, it happens; and all but the insane survive such divisions.

Only they forget the essential unity that underlies differences of opinion. Only they begin to believe in individuality.

The next morning, I continued into Ib.

The poem I composed for the lord of the warm keep became famous. Its form, known as "ringingpraise," was taken up by other poets. From it, I gained some fame, enough to quiet my envy; and the fame led to some money, which provided for my later years.

Did I ever return to Ibri? No. The land was too bitter and dangerous; and I didn't want to meet the lord of the warm keep a second time. Instead, I settled in Lesser Ib, buying a house on a bank of a river named It-Could-Be-Worse. This turned out to be an auspicious name. The house was cozy and my neighbors pleasant. The child played in my fenced- in garden, tended by my female parts. As for my neighbors, they watched with interest and refrained from mentioning the child's obvious disability.

"Lip-presser on one side.

Tongue-biter on t'other.

Happy I live, Praising good neighbors."

I traveled less than previously, because of the child and increasing age. But I did make the festivals in Greater and Lesser Ib. This was easy traveling on level roads across wide plains. The Ibian lords, though sometimes eccentric, were nowhere near as crazy as the ones in Ibri and no danger to me or other poets.

At one of the festivals, I met the famous plumber, who turned out to be a large and handsome male and neuter goxhat. I won the festival crown for poetry, and he/it won the crown for ingenuity. Celebrating with egg wine, we became amorous and fell into each other's many arms.

It was a fine romance and ended without regret, as did all my other romances. As a group, we goxhat are happiest with ourselves. In addition, I could not forget the prisoners in the treadmill. Whether the plumber planned it or not, he/it had caused pain for others. Surely it was wrong-unjust-for some to toil in darkness, so that others had a warm bed and hot water from a pipe?

I have to say, at times I dreamed of that keep: the warm halls, the pipes of water, the heated bathing pool and the defecating throne that had-have I forgotten to mention this?-a padded seat.

"Better to be here In my cozy cottage.

Some comforts Have too high a cost."

I never laid any fertile eggs. My only child is Ap the Foundling, who is also known as Ap of One Body and Ap the Many-talented. As the last nickname suggests, the mite turned out well.

As for me, I became known as The Clanger and The Wis.h.i.+k, because of my famous rhyming poem.

Other names were given to me as well: The Child Collector, The Nurturer, and The Poet Who Is Odd.

1.

Goxhat units, or "persons" as the goxhat say, comprise four to sixteen bodies and two or three s.e.xes. The Bane of Poets was unusual in being entirely neuter, which meant it could not reproduce. According to legend, it was reproductive frustration and fear of death that made The Bane so dangerous to poets.

Why poets? They produce two kinds of children, those of body and those of mind, and grasp in their pincers the gift of undying fame.

2.

This translation is approximate. Like humans, goxhat use wooden blocks to teach their children writing. However, their languages are ideogrammic, and the blocks are inscribed with entire words. Their children build sentences shaped like walls, towers, barns and other buildings. Another translation of the poem would be:

Broken walls.

Broken sentences.

Ignorant offspring.

Alas!

3.

According to the goxhat, when a person dies, his/her/its goodness becomes a single ghost known as "The Harmonious Breath" or "The Collective Spirit." This departs the world for a better place. But a person's badness remains as a turbulent and malicious mob, attacking itself and anyone else who happens along.

4.

Actually, cerebral bulges. The goxhat don't have heads as humans understand the word.

5.

The goxhat believe masturbation is natural and ordinary. But reproduction within a person-inbreeding, as they call it-is unnatural and a horrible disgrace. It rarely happens. Most goxhat are not intrafertile, for reasons too complicated to explain here.

At Dorado

GEOFFREY A. LANDIS.

Geoffrey A. Landis lives in Berea, Ohio. He is a scientist who writes SF, a physicist who works as a civil-service scientist in the Photovoltaics and s.p.a.ce Environmental Effects branch at NASA Glenn. He has won a number of science prizes, and is married to the writer Mary Turzillo. He has published over sixty short stories, characteristically that variety known as hard SF, though always with a focus on human character in whatever situation he posits. His first novel, Mars Crossing, was published in 2000, and some of his short fiction is collected in Impact Parameter and Other Quantum Realities (2001). "Hard SF," says Landis, "is science fiction that's fascinated by science and technology, science fiction in which a scientific fact or speculation is integral to the plot. If you take out the science, the story vanishes."

"At Dorado" is a hard SF story of love and death in the distant future. It was published in Asimov's, which had another fine year publis.h.i.+ng fiction at the top of the field. Set on a black hole transit station in s.p.a.ce, far from any planet, a girl loves a man who is a cad. As in all the best hard SF, the nature of the physics, the science of the situation, makes the story special.

Aman Cheena barely knew came running to the door of the bar. For a brief second she thought that he might be a customer, but then Cheena saw he was wearing a leather harness and jockstrap and almost nothing else. One of the bar-boys from a dance house along the main spiral-path to the downside.

In the middle of third s.h.i.+ft, there was little business in the bar. Had there been a s.h.i.+p in port, of course, the bar would be packed with rowdy sailors, and she would have been working her a.s.s off trying to keep them all lubricated and spending their port-pay. But between dockings, the second-s.h.i.+ft maintenance workers had already finished their after- work drinks and left, and the place was mostly empty.

It was unusual that a worker from one of the downside establishments would drop into a bar so far upspinward, and Cheena knew instantly that something was wrong. She flicked the music off-n.o.body was listening anyway-and he spoke.

"Hoya," he said. "A wreck, a wreck! They fish out debris now." The door hissed shut, and he was gone.

Cheena pushed into the crowd that was already gathered at the maintenance dock. The gravity was so low at the maintenance docks that they were floating more than standing, and the crowd slowly roiled into the air and back down. Cheena saw the bar-boy who had brought the news, and a gaggle of other barmaids and bar-boys, a few maintenance workers, some Cauchy readers, navigators, and a handful of waiting-for-work sailors. "Stand back, stand back," a lone security dockworker said. "Nothing to see yet." But n.o.body moved back. "Which s.h.i.+p was it?" somebody shouted, and two or three others echoed: "What s.h.i.+p? What s.h.i.+p?" That was what everybody wanted to know.

"Don't know yet," the security guy said. "Stand back now, stand back."

"Hesperia," said a voice behind. Cheena turned, and the crowd did as well. It was a tug pilot, still wearing his fluorescent yellow flight suit, although his helmet was off. "The wreck was Hesperia."

There was a moment of silence, and then a soft sigh went through the crowd, followed by a rising babble of voices, some of them relieved, some of them curious, some dazed by the news. Hesperia, Cheena thought. The word was like a silken ribbon suddenly tied around her heart.

"They're bringing debris in now," said the tug pilot.