THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF

BEST NEW
SCIENCE FICTION

final SF22.indd 1 21/7/09 16:22:32

 Also available

The Mammoth Book of 20th Century Science Fiction, vol. 2

The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries
The Mammoth Book of Best Horror Comics
The Mammoth Book of Best of the Best New SF
The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 19
The Mammoth Book of Best New Manga 3
The Mammoth Book of Best New SF 21
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final SF22.indd 2 21/7/09 16:22:33

 THE MAMMOTH BOOK
OF BEST NEW
SCIENCE FICTION
22nd Annual Collection

Edited by
GARDNER DOZOIS

ROBINSON
London

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 contents

Acknowledgments ix
Summation: 2008 xi
turing’s apples • Stephen Baxter 1
from babel’s fall’n glory we fled • Michael Swanwick 18
the gambler • Paolo Bacigalupi 36
boojum • Elizabeth Bear and Sarah Monette 57
the six directions of space • Alastair Reynolds 73
n-words • Ted Kosmatka 122
an eligible boy • Ian McDonald 136
shining armour • Dominic Green 159
the hero • Karl Schroeder 175
evil robot monkey • Mary Robinette Kowal 196
five thrillers • Robert Reed 199
the sky that wraps the world round, past the blue
and into the black • Jay Lake 236
incomers • Paul J. McAuley 245
crystal nights • Greg Egan 263
the egg man • Mary Rosenblum 284
his master’s voice • Hannu Rajaniemi 304
the political prisoner • Charles Coleman Finlay 315
balancing accounts • James L. Cambias 369
special economics • Maureen F. McHugh 385
days of wonder • Geoff Ryman 409
city of the dead • Paul McAuley 441
the voyage out • Gwyneth Jones 464
the illustrated biography of lord grimm
• Daryl Gregory 480
g-men • Kristine Kathryn Rusch 498
the erdmann nexus • Nancy Kress 529
old friends • Garth Nix 588
the ray-gun: a love story • James Alan Gardner 595
lester young and the jupiter’s moons’ blues
• Gord Sellar 614
butterfly, falling at dawn • Aliette de Bodard 642
the tear • Ian McDonald 662
honorable mentions: 2008 713

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 acknowledgments

The editor would like to thank the following people for their help and sup-
port: Susan Casper, Jonathan Strahan, Gordon Van Gelder, Ellen Datlow,
Peter Crowther, Nicolas Gevers, Jack Dann, Mark Pontin, William Shaffer,
Ian Whates, Mike Resnick, Andy Cox, Sean Wallace, Robert Wexler,
Patrick Nielsen Hayden, Torie Atkinson, Jed Hartman, Eric T. Reynolds,
George Mann, Jennifer Brehl, Peter Tennant, Susan Marie Groppi, Karen
Meisner, John Joseph Adams, Wendy S. Delmater, Rich Horton, Mark
R. Kelly, Andrew Wilson, Damien Broderick, Gary Turner, Lou Anders,
Cory Doctorow, Patrick Swenson, Bridget McKenna, Marti McKenna,
Jay Lake, Sheila Williams, Brian Bieniowski, Trevor Quachri, Alastair
Reynolds, Michael Swanwick, Stephen Baxter, Kristine Kathryn Rusch,
Nancy Kress, Greg Egan, Ian McDonald, Paul McAuley, Ted Kosmatka,
Paolo Bacigalupi, Elizabeth Bear, Robert Reed, Vandana Singh, Kathleen
Ann Goonan, Daryl Gregory, James Alan Gardner, Maureen McHugh,
L. Timmel Duchamp, Walter Jon Williams, Jeff VanderMeer, Gwyneth
Jones, Dominic Green, William Sanders, Lawrence Watt-Evans, David
D. Levine, Liz Williams, Geoff Ryman, Paul Brazier, Charles Coleman
Finlay, Gord Sellar, Steven Utley, James L. Cambias, Garth Nix, David
Hartwell, Ginjer Buchanan, Susan Allison, Shawna McCarthy, Kelly Link,
Gavin Grant, John Klima, John O’Neill, Rodger Turner, Tyree Campbell,
Stuart Mayne, John Kenny, Edmund Schubert, Tehani Wessely, Tehani
Croft, Karl Johanson, Sally Beasley, Connor Cochran, Tony Lee, Joe Vas,
John Pickrell, Ian Redman, Anne Zanoni, Kaolin Fire, Ralph Benko, Paul
Graham Raven, Nick Wood, David Moles, Mike Allen, Jason Sizemore,
Karl Johanson, Sue Miller, David Lee Summers, Christopher M. Cevasco,
Tyree Campbell, Andrew Hook, Vaughne Lee Hansen, Mark Watson,
Sarah Lumnah, and special thanks to my own editor, Marc Resnick.
Thanks are also due to Charles N. Brown, whose magazine Locus
(Locus Publications, P. O. Box 13305, Oakland, CA 94661. $60 in the
United States for a one-year subscription [twelve issues] via second class;
credit card orders 510-339-9198) was used as an invaluable reference
source throughout the summation; Locus Online (locusmag.com), edited
by Mark R. Kelly, has also become a key reference source.

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 Turing’s Apples
Stephen Baxter

Stephen Baxter made his first sale to Interzone in 1987, and

since then has become one of that magazine’s most frequent
contributors, as well as making sales to Asimov’s Science
Fiction, Science Fiction Age, Analog, Zenith, New Worlds,
and elsewhere. He’s one of the most prolific new writers in sci-
ence fiction, and is rapidly becoming one of the most popular
and acclaimed of them as well, one who works on the cutting
edge of science, whose fiction bristles with weird new ideas,
and often takes place against vistas of almost outrageously
cosmic scope. Baxter’s first novel, Raft, was released in 1991,
and was rapidly followed by other well-received novels such as
Timelike Infinity, Anti-Ice, Flux, and the H. G. Wells pastiche
– a sequel to The Time Machine – The Time Ships, which won
both the John W. Campbell Memorial Award and the Philip
K. Dick Award. His other books include the novels Voyage,
Titan, Moonseed, Mammoth, Book One: Silverhair, Manifold:
Time, Manifold: Space, Evolution, Coalescent, Exultant,
Transcendent, Emperor, Resplendent, Conqueror, Navagator,
Firstborn, and The H-Bomb Girl, and two novels in collabo-
ration with Arthur C. Clarke, The Light of Other Days and
Time’s Eye, a Time Odyssey. His short fiction has been col-
lected in Vacuum Diagrams: Stories of the Xeelee Sequence,
Traces, and Hunters of Pangaea, and he has released a chap-
book novella, Mayflower II. Coming up are several new nov-
els, including Weaver, Flood, and Ark.
As the disquieting story that follows suggests, perhaps it’s bet-
ter if the search for extraterrestrial intelligence doesn’t succeed. . .

N ear the centre of the Moon’s far side there is a neat, round, well-
defined crater called Daedalus. No human knew this existed before
the middle of the twentieth century. It’s a bit of lunar territory as far as you
can get from Earth, and about the quietest.
That’s why the teams of astronauts from Europe, America, Russia and
China went there. They smoothed over the floor of a crater ninety kilome-
tres wide, laid sheets of metal mesh over the natural dish, and suspended
feed horns and receiver systems on spidery scaffolding. And there you had

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 2 Stephen Baxter

it, an instant radio telescope, by far the most powerful ever built: a super-
Arecibo, dwarfing its mother in Puerto Rico. Before the astronauts left
they christened their telescope Clarke.
Now the telescope is a ruin, and much of the floor of Daedalus is cov-
ered by glass, Moon dust melted by multiple nuclear strikes. But, I’m told,
if you were to look down from some slow lunar orbit you would see a
single point of light glowing there, a star fallen to the Moon. One day the
Moon will be gone, but that point will remain, silently orbiting Earth, a
lunar memory. And in the further future, when the Earth has gone too,
when the stars have burned out and the galaxies fled from the sky, still that
point of light will shine.
My brother Wilson never left the Earth. In fact he rarely left England.
He was buried, what was left of him, in a grave next to our father’s, just
outside Milton Keynes. But he made that point of light on the Moon,
which will be the last legacy of all mankind.
Talk about sibling rivalry.

2020
It was at my father’s funeral, actually, before Wilson had even begun his
SETI searches, that the Clarke first came between us.
There was a good turnout at the funeral, at an old church on the outskirts
of Milton Keynes proper. Wilson and I were my father’s only children, but
as well as his old friends there were a couple of surviving aunts and a gag-
gle of cousins mostly around our age, mid-twenties to mid-thirties, so there
was a good crop of children, like little flowers.
I don’t know if I’d say Milton Keynes is a good place to live. It certainly
isn’t a good place to die. The city is a monument to planning, a concrete
grid of avenues with very English names like Midsummer, now overlaid
by the new monorail. It’s so clean it makes death seem a social embarrass-
ment, like a fart in a shopping mall. Maybe we need to be buried in ground
dirty with bones.
Our father had remembered, just, how the area was all villages and farm-
land before the Second World War. He had stayed on even after our mother
died twenty years before he did, him and his memories made invalid by all
the architecture. At the service I spoke of those memories – for instance
how during the war a tough Home Guard had caught him sneaking into
the grounds of Bletchley Park, not far away, scrumping apples while Alan
Turing and the other geniuses were labouring over the Nazi codes inside
the house. “Dad always said he wondered if he picked up a mathematical
bug from Turing’s apples,” I concluded, “because, he would say, for sure
Wilson’s brain didn’t come from him.”
“Your brain too,” Wilson said when he collared me later outside the
church. He hadn’t spoken at the service; that wasn’t his style. “You should
have mentioned that. I’m not the only mathematical nerd in the family.”
It was a difficult moment. My wife and I had just been introduced to
Hannah, the two-year-old daughter of a cousin. Hannah had been born pro-

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 Turing’s Apples 3

foundly deaf, and we adults in our black suits and dresses were awkwardly
copying her parents’ bits of sign language. Wilson just walked through this
lot to get to me, barely glancing at the little girl with the wide smile who
was the centre of attention. I led him away to avoid any offence.
He was thirty then, a year older than me, taller, thinner, edgier. Others
have said we were more similar than I wanted to believe. He had brought
nobody with him to the funeral, and that was a relief. His partners could
be male or female, his relationships usually destructive; his companions
were like unexploded bombs walking into the room.
“Sorry if I got the story wrong,” I said, a bit caustically.
“Dad and his memories, all those stories he told over and over. Well, it’s
the last time I’ll hear about Turing’s apples!”
That thought hurt me. “We’ll remember. I suppose I’ll tell it to Eddie and
Sam some day.” My own little boys.
“They won’t listen. Why should they? Dad will fade away. Everybody
fades away. The dead get deader.” He was talking about his own father,
whom we had just buried. “Listen, have you heard they’re putting the
Clarke through its acceptance test run? . . .” And, there in the church-
yard, he actually pulled a handheld computer out of his inside jacket
pocket and brought up a specification. “Of course you understand the
importance of it being on Farside.” For the millionth time in my life
he had set his little brother a pop quiz, and he looked at me as if I was
catastrophically dumb.
“Radio shadow,” I said. To be shielded from Earth’s noisy chatter was
particularly important for SETI, the search for extraterrestrial intelligence
to which my brother was devoting his career. SETI searches for faint sig-
nals from remote civilizations, a task made orders of magnitude harder if
you’re drowned out by very loud signals from a nearby civilization.
He actually applauded my guess, sarcastically. He often reminded me
of what had always repelled me about academia – the barely repressed
bullying, the intense rivalry. A university is a chimp pack. That was why I
was never tempted to go down that route. That, and maybe the fact that
Wilson had gone that way ahead of me.
I was faintly relieved when people started to move out of the church-
yard. There was going to be a reception at my father’s home, and we had
to go.
“So are you coming for the cakes and sherry?”
He glanced at the time on his handheld. “Actually I’ve somebody
to meet.”
“He or she?”
He didn’t reply. For one brief moment he looked at me with honesty.
“You’re better at this stuff than me.”
“What stuff? Being human?”
“Listen, the Clarke should be open for business in a month. Come on
down to London; we can watch the first results.”
“I’d like that.”

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 4 Stephen Baxter

I was lying, and his invitation probably wasn’t sincere either. In the end
it was over two years before I saw him again.
By then he’d found the Eagle signal, and everything had changed.

2022
Wilson and his team quickly established that their brief signal, first
detected just months after Clarke went operational, was coming from a
source 6,500 light years from Earth, somewhere beyond a starbirth cloud
called the Eagle Nebula. That’s a long way away, on the other side of the
Galaxy’s next spiral arm in the Sagittarius.
And to call the signal “brief” understates it. It was a second-long pulse,
faint and hissy, and it repeated just once a year, roughly. It was a monu-
ment to robotic patience that the big lunar ear had picked up the damn
thing at all.
Still it was a genuine signal from ET, the scientists were jumping up and
down, and for a while it was a public sensation. Within days somebody
had rushed out a pop single inspired by the message: called “Eagle Song,”
slow, dreamlike, littered with what sounded like sitars, and very beautiful.
It was supposedly based on a Beatles master lost for five decades. It made
number two.
But the signal was just a squirt of noise from a long way off. When there
was no follow-up, when no mother ship materialized in the sky, interest
moved on. That song vanished from the charts.
The whole business of the signal turned out to be your classic nine-day
wonder. Wilson invited me in on the tenth day. That was why I was resent-
ful, I guess, as I drove into town that morning to visit him.
The Clarke Institute’s ground station was in one of the huge glass fol-
lies thrown up along the banks of the Thames in the profligate boom-
capitalism days of the noughties. Now office space was cheap enough even
for academics to rent, but central London was a fortress, with mandatory
crawl lanes so your face could be captured by the surveillance cameras. I
was in the counter-terror business myself, and I could see the necessity as
I edged past St Paul’s, whose dome had been smashed like an egg by the
Carbon Cowboys’ bomb of 2018. But the slow ride left me plenty of time
to brood on how many more important people Wilson had shown off to
before he got around to his brother. Wilson never was loyal that way.
Wilson’s office could have been any modern data-processing installation,
save for the all-sky projection of the cosmic background radiation painted
on the ceiling. Wilson sat me down and offered me a can of warm Coke.
An audio transposition of the signal was playing on an open laptop, over
and over. It sounded like waves lapping at a beach. Wilson looked like he
hadn’t shaved for three days, slept for five, or changed his shirt in ten. He
listened, rapt.
Even Wilson and his team hadn’t known about the detection of the sig-
nal for a year. The Clarke ran autonomously; the astronauts who built it
had long since packed up and come home. A year earlier the telescope’s

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 Turing’s Apples 5

signal processors had spotted the pulse, a whisper of microwaves. There

was structure in there, and evidence that the beam was collimated – it
looked artificial. But the signal faded after just a second.
Most previous SETI searchers had listened for strong, continuous sig-
nals, and would have given up at that point. But what about a lighthouse,
sweeping a microwave beam around the Galaxy like a searchlight? That,
so Wilson had explained to me, would be a much cheaper way for a trans-
mitting civilization to send to a lot more stars. So, based on that economic
argument, the Clarke was designed for patience. It had waited a whole
year. It had even sent requests to other installations, asking them to keep
an electronic eye out in case the Clarke, stuck in its crater, happened to be
looking the other way when the signal recurred. In the end it struck lucky
and found the repeat pulse itself, and at last alerted its human masters.
“We’re hot favourites for the Nobel,” Wilson said, matter of fact.
I felt like having a go at him. “Probably everybody out there has forgot-
ten about your signal already.” I waved a hand at the huge glass windows;
the office, meant for fat-cat hedge fund managers, had terrific views of
the river, the Houses of Parliament, the tangled wreck of the London Eye.
“Okay, it’s proof of existence, but that’s all.”
He frowned at that. “Well, that’s not true. Actually we’re looking for
more data in the signal. It is very faint, and there’s a lot of scintillation
from the interstellar medium. We’re probably going to have to wait for a
few more passes to get a better resolution.”
“A few more passes? A few more years!”
“But even without that there’s a lot we can tell just from the signal
itself.” He pulled up charts on his laptop. “For a start we can deduce the
Eaglets’ technical capabilities and power availability, given that we believe
they’d do it as cheaply as possible. This analysis is related to an old model
called Benford beacons.” He pointed to a curve minimum. “Look – we
figure they are pumping a few hundred megawatts through an array kilo-
metres across, probably comparable to the one we’ve got listening on the
Moon. Sending out pulses around the plane of the Galaxy, where most of
the stars lie. We can make other guesses.” He leaned back and took a slug
of his Coke, dribbling a few drops to add to the collection of stains on his
shirt. “The search for ET was always guided by philosophical principles
and logic. Now we have this one data point, the Eaglets 6,000 light years
away, we can test those principles.”
“Such as?”
“The principle of plenitude. We believed that because life and intelli-
gence arose on this Earth, they ought to arise everywhere they can. Here’s
one validation of that principle. Then there’s the principle of mediocrity.”
I remembered enough of my studies to recall that. “We aren’t at any
special place in space and time.”
“Right. Turns out, given this one data point, it’s not likely to hold too
well.”
“Why do you say that?”

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 6 Stephen Baxter

“Because we found these guys in the direction of the centre of the Galaxy
. . .”
When the Galaxy was young, star formation was most intense at its
core. Later a wave of starbirth swept out through the disc, with the heavy
elements necessary for life baked in the hearts of dead stars and driven on
a wind of supernovas. So the stars inward of us are older than the sun, and
are therefore likely to have been harbours for life much longer.
“We would expect to see a concentration of old civilizations towards
the centre of the Galaxy. This one example validates that.” He eyed me,
challenging. “We can even guess how many technological, transmitting
civilizations there are in the Galaxy.”
“From this one instance?” I was practised at this kind of contest between
us. “Well, let’s see. The Galaxy is a disc a 100,000 light years across,
roughly. If all the civilizations are an average of 6,000 light years apart –
divide the area of the Galaxy by the area of a disc of diameter 6,000 light
years – around three hundred?”
He smiled. “Very good.”
“So we’re not typical,” I said. “We’re young, and out in the suburbs. All
that from a single microwave pulse.”
“Of course most ordinary people are too dumb to be able to appreciate
logic like that. That’s why they aren’t rioting in the streets.” He said this
casually. Language like that always made me wince, even when we were
undergraduates.
But he had a point. Besides, I had the feeling that most people had
already believed in their gut that ET existed; this was a confirmation, not a
shock. You might blame Hollywood for that, but Wilson sometimes specu-
lated that we were looking for our lost brothers. All those other hominid
species, those other kinds of mind, that we killed off one by one, just as in
my lifetime we had destroyed the chimps in the wild – sentient tool-using
beings, hunted down for bushmeat. We evolved on a crowded planet, and
we missed them all.
“A lot of people are speculating about whether the Eaglets have souls,”
I said. “According to Saint Thomas Aquinas­—”
He waved away Saint Thomas Aquinas. “You know, in a way our feel-
ings behind SETI were always theological, explicitly or not. We were look-
ing for God in the sky, or some technological equivalent. Somebody who
would care about us. But we were never going to find Him. We were going
to find either emptiness, or a new category of being, between us and the
angels. The Eaglets have got nothing to do with us, or our dreams of God.
That’s what people don’t see. And that’s what people will have to deal
with, ultimately.”
He glanced at the ceiling, and I guessed he was looking towards the
Eagle nebula. “And they won’t be much like us. Hell of a place they live in.
Not like here. The Sagittarius arm wraps a whole turn around the Galaxy’s
core, full of dust and clouds and young stars. Why, the Eagle nebula itself
is lit up by stars only a few million years old. Must be a tremendous sky,
like a slow explosion – not like our sky of orderly wheeling pinpoints,

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 Turing’s Apples 7

which is like the inside of a computer. No wonder we began with astrology

and astronomy. How do you imagine their thinking will be different, hav-
ing evolved under such a different sky?”
I grunted. “We’ll never know. Not for 6,000 years at least.”
“Maybe. Depends what data we find in the signal. You want another
Coke?”
But I hadn’t opened the first.
That was how that day went. We talked of nothing but the signal, not
how he was, who he was dating, not about my family, my wife and the
boys – all of us learning sign, incidentally, to talk to little Hannah. The
Eagle signal was inhuman, abstract. Nothing you could see or touch; you
couldn’t even hear it without fancy signal processing. But it was all that
filled his head. That was Wilson all over.
This was, in retrospect, the happiest time of his life. God help him.

2026
“You want my help, don’t you?”
Wilson stood on my doorstep, wearing a jacket and shambolic tie, every
inch the academic. He looked shifty. “How do you know?”
“Why else would you come here? You never visit.” Well, it was true. He
hardly ever even mailed or called. I didn’t think my wife and kids had seen
him since our father’s funeral six years earlier.
He thought that over, then grinned. “A reasonable deduction, given past
observation. Can I come in?”
I took him through the living room on the way to my home study. The
boys, then twelve and thirteen, were playing a hologram boxing game,
with two wavering foot-tall prize fighters mimicking the kids’ actions in
the middle of the carpet. I introduced Wilson. They barely remembered
him and I wasn’t sure if he remembered them. I hurried him on. The boys
signed to each other What a dork, roughly translated.
Wilson noticed the signing. “What are they doing? Some kind of private
game?”
I wasn’t surprised he wouldn’t know. “That’s British Sign Language.
We’ve been learning it for years – actually since Dad’s funeral, when we
hooked up with Barry and his wife, and we found out they had a little deaf
girl. Hannah, do you remember? She’s eight now. We’ve all been learning
to talk to her. The kids find it fun, I think. You know, it’s an irony that
you’re involved in a billion-pound project to talk to aliens six thousand
light years away, yet it doesn’t trouble you that you can’t speak to a little
girl in your own family.”
He looked at me blankly. I was mouthing words that obviously meant
nothing to him, intellectually or emotionally. That was Wilson.
He just started talking about work. “We’ve got six years’ worth of data
now – six pulses, each a second long. There’s a lot of information in there.
They use a technique like our own wave-length division multiplexing,

final SF22.indd 7 21/7/09 16:22:36

 8 Stephen Baxter

with the signal divided into sections each a kilohertz or so wide. We’ve
extracted gigabytes . . .”
I gave up. I went and made a pot of coffee, and brought it back to the
study. When I returned he was still standing where I’d left him, like a
switched-off robot. He took a coffee and sat down.
I prompted, “Gigabytes?”
“Gigabytes. By comparison the whole Encyclopaedia Britannica is just
one gigabyte. The problem is we can’t make sense of it.”
“How do you know it’s not just noise?”
“We have techniques to test for that. Information theory. Based on
experiments to do with talking to dolphins, actually.” He dug a handheld
out of his pocket and showed me some of the results.
The first was simple enough, called a “Zipf graph”. You break your mes-
sage up into what look like components – maybe words, letters, phonemes
in English. Then you do a frequency count: how many letter As, how many
Es, how many Rs. If you have random noise you’d expect roughly equal
numbers of the letters, so you’d get a flat distribution. If you have a clean
signal without information content, a string of identical letters, A, A, A,
you’d get a graph with a spike. Meaningful information gives you a slope,
somewhere in between those horizontal and vertical extremes.
“And we get a beautiful log-scale minus one power law,” he said, show-
ing me. “There’s information in there all right. But there is a lot of contro-
versy over identifying the elements themselves. The Eaglets did not send
down neat binary code. The data is frequency modulated, their language
full of growths and decays. More like a garden growing on fast-forward
than any human data stream. I wonder if it has something to do with that
young sky of theirs. Anyhow, after the Zipf, we tried a Shannon entropy
analysis.”
This is about looking for relationships between the signal elements. You
work out conditional probabilities: given pairs of elements, how likely is
it that you’ll see U following Q? Then you go on to higher-order “entropy
levels”, in the jargon, starting with triples: how likely is it to find G fol-
lowing I and N?
“As a comparison, dolphin languages get to third- or fourth-order
entropy. We humans get to eighth or ninth.”
“And the Eaglets?”
“The entropy level breaks our assessment routines. We think it’s around
order thirty.” He regarded me, seeing if I understood. “It is information,
but much more complex than any human language. It might be like English
sentences with a fantastically convoluted structure – triple or quadruple
negatives, overlapping clauses, tense changes.” He grinned. “Or triple
entendres. Or quadruples.”
“They’re smarter than us.”
“Oh, yes. And this is proof, if we needed it, that the message isn’t meant
specifically for us.”
“Because if it were, they’d have dumbed it down. How smart do you
think they are? Smarter than us, certainly, but —”

final SF22.indd 8 21/7/09 16:22:36

 Turing’s Apples 9

“Are there limits? Well, maybe. You might imagine that an older culture
would plateau, once they’ve figured out the essential truths of the universe,
and a technology optimal for their needs . . . There’s no reason to think
progress need be onward and upward forever. Then again perhaps there
are fundamental limits to information processing. Perhaps a brain that gets
too complex is prone to crashes and overloads. There may be a trade-off
between complexity and stability.”
I poured him more coffee. “I went to Cambridge. I’m used to being with
entities smarter than I am. Am I supposed to feel demoralized?”
He grinned. “That’s up to you. But the Eaglets are a new category of
being for us. This isn’t like the Incas meeting the Spaniards, a mere techno-
logical gap. They had a basic humanity in common. We may find the gulf
between us and the Eaglets is forever unbridgeable. Remember how Dad
used to read Gulliver’s Travels to us?”
The memory made me smile.
“Those talking horses used to scare the wits out of me. They were genu-
inely smarter than us. And how did Gulliver react to them? He was totally
overawed. He tried to imitate them, and even after they kicked him out
he always despised his own kind, because they weren’t as good as the
horses.”
“The revenge of Mister Ed,” I said.
But he never was much good at that kind of humour. “Maybe that will
be the way for us – we’ll ape the Eaglets or defy them. Maybe the mere
knowledge that a race smarter than your own exists is death.”
“Is all this being released to the public?”
“Oh, yes. We’re affiliated to NASA, and they have an explicit open-book
policy. Besides the Institute is as leaky as hell. There’s no point even try-
ing to keep it quiet. But we’re releasing the news gradually and soberly.
Nobody’s noticing much. You hadn’t, had you?”
“So what do you think the signal is? Some kind of super-
encyclopaedia?”
He snorted. “Maybe. That’s the fond hope among the contact optimists.
But when the European colonists turned up on foreign shores, their first
impulse wasn’t to hand over encyclopaedias or histories, but —”
“Bibles.”
“Yes. It could be something less disruptive than that. A vast work of art,
for instance. Why would they send such a thing? Maybe it’s a funeral pyre.
Or a pharaoh’s tomb, full of treasure. Look: we were here, this is how
good we became.”
“So what do you want of me?”
He faced me. I thought it was clear he was trying to figure out, in his
clumsy way, how to get me to do whatever it was he wanted. “Well, what
do you think? This makes translating the most obscure human language
a cakewalk, and we’ve got nothing like a Rosetta stone. Look, Jack, our
information processing suites at the Institute are pretty smart theoretically,
but they are limited. Running off processors and memory store not much

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 10 Stephen Baxter

beefier than this.” He waved his handheld. “Whereas the software brutes
that do your data mining are an order of magnitude more powerful.”
The software I developed and maintained mined the endless torrents of
data culled on every individual in the country, from your minute-to-minute
movements on private or public transport to the porn you accessed and
how you hid it from your partner. We tracked your patterns of behaviour,
and deviations from those patterns. “Terrorist” is a broad label, but it
suited to describe the modern phenomenon we were looking for. The ter-
rorists were needles in a haystack, of which the rest of us were the millions
of straws.
This continual live data mining took up monstrous memory storage and
processing power. A few times I’d visited the big Home Office computers
in their hardened bunkers under New Scotland Yard: giant superconduct-
ing neural nets suspended in rooms so cold your breath crackled. There
was nothing like it in the private sector, or in academia.
Which, I realized, was why Wilson had come to me today.
“You want me to run your ET signal through my data mining suites,
don’t you?” He immediately had me hooked, but I wasn’t about to admit
it. I might have rejected the academic life, but I think curiosity burned in
me as strongly as it ever did in Wilson. “How do you imagine I’d get per-
mission for that?”
He waved that away as a technicality of no interest. “What we’re look-
ing for is patterns embedded deep in the data, layers down, any kind of
recognisable starter for us in decoding the whole thing . . . Obviously soft-
ware designed to look for patterns in the way I use my travel cards is going
to have to be adapted to seek useful correlations in the Eaglet data. It will
be an unprecedented challenge.
“In a way that’s a good thing. It will likely take generations to decode
this stuff, if we ever do, the way it took the Renaissance Europeans genera-
tions to make sense of the legacy of antiquity. The sheer time factor is a
culture-shock prophylactic.
“So are you going to bend the rules for me, Jack? Come on, man.
Remember what Dad said. Solving puzzles like this is what we do. We
both ate Turing’s apples . . .”
He wasn’t entirely without guile. He knew how to entice me. He turned
out to be wrong about the culture shock, however.

2029
Two armed coppers escorted me through the Institute building. The big
glass box was entirely empty save for me and the coppers and a sniffer dog.
The morning outside was bright, a cold spring day, the sky a serene blue,
elevated from Wilson’s latest madness.
Wilson was sitting in the Clarke project office, beside a screen across
which data displays flickered. He had big slabs of Semtex strapped around
his waist, and some kind of dead man’s trigger in his hand. My brother,

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 Turing’s Apples 11

reduced at last to a cliché suicide bomber. The coppers stayed safely

outside.
“We’re secure.” Wilson glanced around. “They can see us but they can’t
hear us. I’m confident of that. My firewalls —” When I walked towards
him he held up his hands. “No closer. I’ll blow it, I swear.”
“Christ, Wilson.” I stood still, shut up, and deliberately calmed down.
I knew that my boys, now in their teens, would be watching every move
on the spy-hack news channels. Maybe nobody could hear us, but Hannah,
now a beautiful eleven-year-old, had plenty of friends who could read lips.
That would never occur to Wilson. If I was to die today, here with my
lunatic of a brother, I wasn’t going to let my boys remember their father
broken by fear.
I sat down, as close to Wilson as I could get. I tried to keep my head down,
my lips barely moving when I spoke. There was a six-pack of warm soda on
the bench. I think I’ll always associate warm soda with Wilson. I took one,
popped the tab and sipped; I could taste nothing. “You want one?”
“No,” he said bitterly. “Make yourself at home.”
“What a fucking idiot you are, Wilson. How did it ever come to this?”
“You should know. You helped me.”
“And by God I’ve regretted it ever since,” I snarled back at him. “You
got me sacked, you moron. And since France, every nut job on the planet
has me targeted, and my kids. We have police protection.”
“Don’t blame me. You chose to help me.”
I stared at him. “That’s called loyalty. A quality which you, entirely lack-
ing it yourself, see only as a weakness to exploit.”
“Well, whatever. What does it matter now? Look, Jack, I need your
help.”
“This is turning into a pattern.”
He glanced at his screen. “I need you to buy me time, to give me a
chance to complete this project.”
“Why should I care about your project?”
“It’s not my project. It never has been. Surely you understand that much.
It’s the Eaglets’ . . .”
Everything had changed in the three years since I had begun to run
Wilson’s message through the big Home Office computers under New
Scotland Yard – all under the radar of my bosses; they’d never have dared
risk exposing their precious supercooled brains to such unknowns. Well,
Wilson had been right. My data mining had quickly turned up recurring
segments, chunks of organised data differing only in detail.
And it was Wilson’s intuition that these things were bits of executable
code: programs you could run. Even as expressed in the Eaglets’ odd flow-
ing language, he thought he recognised logical loops, start and stop state-
ments. Mathematics may or may not be universal, but computing seems
to be – my brother had found Turing machines, buried deep in an alien
database.
Wilson translated the segments into a human mathematical program-
ming language, and set them to run on a dedicated processor. They turned

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 12 Stephen Baxter

out to be like viruses. Once downloaded on almost any computer sub-

strate they organised themselves, investigated their environment, started
to multiply, and quickly grew, accessing the data banks that had been
downloaded from the stars with them. Then they started asking questions
of the operators: simple yes-no, true-false exchanges that soon built up a
common language.
“The Eaglets didn’t send us a message,” Wilson had whispered to me on
the phone in the small hours; at the height of it he worked twenty-four seven.
“They downloaded an AI. And now the AI is learning to speak to us.”
It was a way to resolve a ferocious communications challenge. The
Eaglets were sending their message to the whole Galaxy; they knew noth-
ing about the intelligence, cultural development, or even the physical form
of their audiences. So they sent an all-purpose artificial mind embedded in
the information stream itself, able to learn and start a local dialogue with
the receivers.
This above all else proved to me how smart the Eaglets must be. It didn’t
comfort me at all that some commentators pointed out that this “Hoyle
strategy” had been anticipated by some human thinkers; it’s one thing to
anticipate, another to build. I wondered if those viruses found it a chal-
lenge to dumb down their message for creatures capable of only ninth-
order Shannon entropy, as we were.
We were soon betrayed. For running the Eaglet data through the Home
Office mining suites I was sacked, arrested, and bailed on condition I went
back to work on the Eaglet stuff under police supervision.
And of course the news that there was information in the Eaglets’ beeps
leaked almost immediately. A new era of popular engagement with the
signal began; the chatter became intense. But because only the Clarke tele-
scope could pick up the signal, the scientists at the Clarke Institute and the
consortium of governments they answered to were able to keep control of
the information itself. And that information looked as if it would become
extremely valuable.
The Eaglets’ programming and data compression techniques, what we
could make of them, had immediate commercial value. When patented by
the UK government and licensed, an information revolution began that
added a billion euros to Britain’s balance of payments in the first year.
Governments and corporations outside the loop of control jumped up and
down with fury.
And then Wilson and his team started to publish what they were learn-
ing of the Eaglets themselves.
We don’t know anything about what they look like, how they live – or
even if they’re corporeal or not. But they are old, vastly old compared
to us. Their cultural records go back a million years, maybe ten times as
long as we’ve been human, and even then they built their civilization on
the ruins of others. But they regard themselves as a young species. They
live in awe of older ones, whose presence they have glimpsed deep in the
turbulent core of the Galaxy.

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 Turing’s Apples 13

Not surprisingly, the Eaglets are fascinated by time and its processes.
One of Wilson’s team foolishly speculated that the Eaglets actually made
a religion of time, deifying the one universal that will erode us all in the
end. That caused a lot of trouble. Some people took up the time creed with
enthusiasm. They looked for parallels in human philosophies, the Hindu
and the Mayan. If the Eaglets really were smarter than us, they said, they
must be closer to the true god, and we should follow them. Others, led by
the conventional religions, moved sharply in the opposite direction. Minor
wars broke out over a creed that was entirely unknown to humanity five
years before, and which nobody on Earth understood fully.
Then the economic dislocations began, as those new techniques for data
handling made whole industries obsolescent. That was predictable; it was
as if the aliens had invaded cyberspace, which was economically domi-
nant over the physical world. Luddite types began sabotaging the software
houses turning out the new-generation systems, and battles broke out in
the corporate universe, themselves on the economic scale of small wars.
“This is the danger of speed,” Wilson had said to me, just weeks before
he wired himself up with Semtex. “If we’d been able to take it slow,
unwrapping the message would have been more like an exercise in normal
science, and we could have absorbed it. Grown with it. Instead, thanks to
the viruses, it’s been like a revelation, a pouring of holy knowledge into
our heads. Revelations tend to be destabilizing. Look at Jesus. Three cen-
turies after the Crucifixion Christianity had taken over the whole Roman
empire.”
Amid all the economic, political, religious and philosophical turbulence,
if anybody had dreamed that knowing the alien would unite us around our
common humanity, they were dead wrong.
Then a bunch of Algerian patriots used pirated copies of the Eaglet
viruses to hammer the electronic infrastructure of France’s major cities.
As everything from sewage to air traffic control crashed, the country was
simultaneously assaulted with train bombs, bugs in the water supply, a
dirty nuke in Orleans. It was a force-multiplier attack, in the jargon; the
toll of death and injury was a shock, even by the standards of the third
decade of the bloody twenty-first century. And our counter-measures were
useless in the face of the Eaglet viruses.
That was when the governments decided the Eaglet project had to be
shut down, or at the very least put under tight control. But Wilson, my
brother, wasn’t having any of that.
“None of this is the fault of the Eaglets, Jack,” he said now, an alien
apologist with Semtex strapped to his waist. “They didn’t mean to harm
us in any way.”
“Then what do they want?”
“Our help . . .”
And he was going to provide it. With, in turn, my help.
“Why me? I was sacked, remember.”
“They’ll listen to you. The police. Because you’re my brother. You’re
useful.”

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 14 Stephen Baxter

“Useful? . . .” At times Wilson seemed unable to see people as anything

other than useful robots, even his own family. I sighed. “Tell me what you
want.”
“Time,” he said, glancing at his screen, the data and status summaries
scrolling across it. “The great god of the Eaglets, remember? Just a little
more time.”
“How much?”
He checked. “Twenty-four hours would let me complete this download.
That’s an outside estimate. Just stall them. Keep them talking, stay here
with me. Make them think you’re making progress in talking me out of
it.”
“While the actual progress is being made by that.” I nodded at the
screen. “What are you doing here, Wilson? What’s it about?”
“I don’t know all of it. There are hints in the data. Subtexts sometimes
. . .” He was whispering.
“Subtexts about what?”
“About what concerns the Eaglets. Jack, what do you imagine a long-
lived civilization wants? If you could think on very long timescales you
would be concerned about threats that seem remote to us.”
“An asteroid impact due in a thousand years, maybe? If I expected to
live that long, or my kids —”
“That kind of thing. But that’s not long enough, Jack, not nearly. In the
data there are passages – poetry, maybe – that speak of the deep past and
furthest future, the Big Bang that is echoed in the microwave background,
the future that will be dominated by the dark energy expansion that will
ultimately throw all the other galaxies over the cosmological horizon . . .
The Eaglets think about these things, and not just as scientific hypotheses.
They care about them. The dominance of their great god time. ‘The uni-
verse has no memory’.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure. A phrase in the message.”
“So what are you downloading? And to where?”
“The Moon,” he said frankly. “The Clarke telescope, on Farside. They
want us to build something, Jack. Something physical, I mean. And with
the fabricators and other maintenance gear at Clarke there’s a chance we
could do it. I mean, it’s not the most advanced offworld robot facility; it’s
only designed for maintenance and upgrade of the radio telescope —”
“But it’s the facility you can get your hands on. You’re letting these
Eaglet agents out of their virtual world and giving them a way to build
something real. Don’t you think that’s dangerous?”
“Dangerous how?” And he laughed at me and turned away.
I grabbed his shoulders and swivelled him around in his chair. “Don’t
you turn away from me, you fucker. You’ve been doing that all our lives.
You know what I mean. Why, the Eaglets’ software alone is making a mess
of the world. What if this is some kind of Trojan horse – a Doomsday
weapon they’re getting us suckers to build ourselves?”
“It’s hardly likely that an advanced culture —”

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 Turing’s Apples 15

“Don’t give me that contact-optimist bullshit. You don’t believe it your-

self. And even if you did, you don’t know for sure. You can’t.”
“No. All right.” He pulled away from me. “I can’t know. Which is one
reason why I set the thing going up on the Moon, not Earth. Call it a
quarantine. If we don’t like whatever it is, there’s at least a chance we
could contain it up there. Yes, there’s a risk. But the rewards are unknow-
able, and huge.” He looked at me, almost pleading for me to understand.
“We have to go on. This is the Eaglets’ project, not ours. Ever since we
unpacked the message, this story has been about them, not us. That’s what
dealing with a superior intelligence means. It’s like those religious nuts say.
We know the Eaglets are orders of magnitude smarter than us. Shouldn’t
we trust them? Shouldn’t we help them achieve their goal, even if we don’t
understand precisely what it is?”
“This ends now.” I reached for the keyboard beside me. “Tell me how
to stop the download.”
“No.” He sat firm, that trigger clutched in his right hand.
“You won’t use that. You wouldn’t kill us both. Not for something so
abstract, inhuman —”
“Superhuman,” he breathed. “Not inhuman. Superhuman. Oh, I would.
You’ve known me all your life, Jack. Look into my eyes. I’m not like you.
Do you really doubt me?”
And, looking at him, I didn’t.
So we sat there, the two of us, a face-off. I stayed close enough to over-
power him if he gave me the slightest chance. And he kept his trigger
before my face.
Hour after hour.
In the end it was time that defeated him, I think, the Eaglets’ invisible
god. That and fatigue. I’m convinced he didn’t mean to release the trigger.
Only seventeen hours had elapsed, of the twenty-four he asked for, when
his thumb slipped.
I tried to turn away. That small, instinctive gesture was why I lost a leg,
a hand, an eye, all on my right side.
And I lost a brother.
But when the forensics guys had finished combing through the wreck-
age, they were able to prove that the seventeen hours had been enough for
Wilson’s download.

2033
It took a month for NASA, ESA and the Chinese to send up a lunar orbiter
to see what was going on. The probe found that Wilson’s download had
caused the Clarke fabricators to start making stuff. At first they made other
machines, more specialized, from what was lying around in the workshops
and sheds. These in turn made increasingly tiny versions of themselves,
heading steadily down to the nano scale. In the end the work was so fine
only an astronaut on the ground might have had a chance of even seeing
it. Nobody dared send in a human.

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 16 Stephen Baxter

Meanwhile the machines banked up Moon dust and scrap to make a

high-energy facility – something like a particle accelerator or a fusion
torus, but not.
Then the real work started.
The Eaglet machines took a chunk of Moon rock and crushed it, turning
its mass-energy into a spacetime artefact – something like a black hole, but
not. They dropped it into the body of the Moon, where it started accret-
ing, sucking in material, like a black hole, and budding off copies of itself,
unlike a black hole.
Gradually these objects began converting the substance of the Moon
into copies of themselves. The glowing point of light we see at the centre
of Clarke is leaked radiation from this process.
The governments panicked. A nuclear warhead was dug out of cold
store and dropped plumb into Daedalus Crater. The explosion was spec-
tacular. But when the dust subsided that pale, unearthly spark was still
there, unperturbed.
As the cluster of nano artefacts grows, the Moon’s substance will be con-
sumed at an exponential rate. Centuries, a millennium tops, will be enough
to consume it all. And Earth will be orbited, not by its ancient companion,
but by a spacetime artefact, like a black hole, but not. That much seems
well established by the physicists.
There is less consensus as to the purpose of the artefact. Here’s my
guess.
The Moon artefact will be a recorder.
Wilson said the Eaglets feared the universe has no memory. I think he
meant that, right now, in our cosmic epoch, we can still see relics of the
universe’s birth, echoes of the Big Bang, in the microwave background
glow. And we also see evidence of the expansion to come, in the recession
of the distant galaxies. We discovered both these basic features of the uni-
verse, its past and its future, in the twentieth century.
There will come a time – the cosmologists quote hundreds of billions of
years – when the accelerating recession will have taken all those distant
galaxies over our horizon. So we will be left with just the local group,
the Milky Way and Andromeda and bits and pieces, bound together by
gravity. The cosmic expansion will be invisible. And meanwhile the back-
ground glow will have become so attenuated you won’t be able to pick it
out of the faint glow of the interstellar medium.
So in that remote epoch you wouldn’t be able to repeat the twentieth-
century discoveries; you couldn’t glimpse past or future. That’s what the
Eaglets mean when they say the universe has no memory.
And I believe they are countering it. They, and those like Wilson that
they co-opt into helping them, are carving time capsules out of folded
spacetime. At some future epoch these will evaporate, maybe through
something like Hawking radiation, and will reveal the truth of the universe
to whatever eyes are there to see it.
Of course it occurs to me – this is Wilson’s principle of mediocrity – that
ours might not be the only epoch with a privileged view of the cosmos. Just

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 Turing’s Apples 17

after the Big Bang there was a pulse of “inflation”, superfast expansion
that homogenized the universe and erased details of whatever came before.
Maybe we should be looking for other time boxes, left for our benefit by
the inhabitants of those early realms.
The Eaglets are conscious entities trying to give the universe a memory.
Perhaps there is even a deeper purpose: it may be intelligence’s role to
shape the ultimate evolution of the universe, but you can’t do that if you’ve
forgotten what went before.
Not every commentator agrees with my analysis, as above. The interpre-
tation of the Eaglet data has always been uncertain. Maybe even Wilson
wouldn’t agree. Well, since it’s my suggestion he would probably argue
with me by sheer reflex.
I suppose it’s possible to care deeply about the plight of hypothetical
beings a hundred billion years hence. In one sense we ought to; their epoch
is our inevitable destiny. Wilson certainly did care, enough to kill him-
self for it. But this is a project so vast and cold that it can engage only a
semi-immortal supermind like an Eaglet’s – or a modern human who is
functionally insane.
What matters most to me is the now. The sons who haven’t yet aged and
crumbled to dust, playing football under a sun that hasn’t yet burned to a
cinder. The fact that all this is transient makes it more precious, not less.
Maybe our remote descendants in a hundred billion years will find similar
brief happiness under their black and unchanging sky.
If I could wish one thing for my lost brother it would be that I could
be sure he felt this way, this alive, just for one day. Just for one minute.
Because, in the end, that’s all we’ve got.

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 From Babel’s
Fall’n Glory We Fled
Michael Swanwick

Michael Swanwick made his debut in 1980, and in the twenty-

eight years that have followed has established himself as one
of SF’s most prolific and consistently excellent writers at short
lengths, as well as one of the premier novelists of his gen-
eration. He has won the Theodore Sturgeon Award and the
Asimov’s Readers Award poll. In 1991, his novel Stations of
the Tide won him a Nebula Award as well, and in 1995 he
won the World Fantasy Award for his story “Radio Waves.”
He won the Hugo Award five times between 1999 and 2006
for his stories “The Very Pulse of the Machine,” “Scherzo with
Tyrannosaur,” “The Dog Said Bow-Wow,” “Slow Life,” and
“Legions In Time.” His other books include the novels In The
Drift, Vacuum Flowers, The Iron Dragon’s Daughter, Jack
Faust, and Bones of the Earth. His short fiction has been assem-
bled in Gravity’s Angels, A Geography of Unknown Lands,
Slow Dancing Through Time, Moon Dogs, Puck Aleshire’s
Abecedary, Tales of Old Earth, Cigar-Box Faust and Other
Miniatures, Michael Swanwick’s Field Guide to the Mesozoic
Megafauna, and The Periodic Table of SF. His most recent
books are a new novel, The Dragons of Babel, and a mas-
sive retrospective collection, The Best of Michael Swanwick.
Swanwick lives in Philadelphia with his wife, Marianne Porter.
He has a website at: michaelswanwick.com.
In the suspenseful story that follows, he shows us that the
important thing to keep in mind when dealing with aliens is
that they are, well, alien.

I magine a cross between Byzantium and a termite mound. Imagine a

jewelled mountain, slender as an icicle, rising out of the steam jungles
and disappearing into the dazzling pearl-grey skies of Gehenna. Imagine
that Gaudí – he of the Sagrada Família and other biomorphic architectural
whimsies – had been commissioned by a nightmare race of giant black mil-
lipedes to recreate Barcelona at the height of its glory, along with touches

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 From Babel’s Fall’n Glory We Fled 19

of the Forbidden City in the eighteenth century and Tokyo in the twenty-
second, all within a single miles-high structure. Hold every bit of that in
your mind at once, multiply by a thousand, and you’ve got only the faint-
est ghost of a notion of the splendour that was Babel.
Now imagine being inside Babel when it fell.
Hello. I’m Rosamund. I’m dead. I was present in human form when it
happened and as a simulation chaotically embedded within a liquid crystal
data-matrix then and thereafter up to the present moment. I was killed
instantly when the meteors hit. I saw it all.
Rosamund means “rose of the world”. It’s the third most popular female
name on Europa, after Gaea and Virginia Dare. For all our elaborate
sophistication, we wear our hearts on our sleeves, we Europans.
Here’s what it was like:

“Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!”

“Wha —?” Carlos Quivera sat up, shedding rubble. He coughed,
choked, shook his head. He couldn’t seem to think clearly. An instant ago
he’d been standing in the chilled and pressurized embassy suite, conferring
with Arsenio. Now . . . “How long have I been asleep?”
“Unconscious. Ten hours,” his suit (that’s me – Rosamund!) said. It had
taken that long to heal his burns. Now it was shooting wake-up drugs into
him: amphetamines, endorphins, attention enhancers, a witch’s brew of
chemicals. Physically dangerous, but in this situation, whatever it might
be, Quivera would survive by intelligence or not at all. “I was able to form
myself around you before the walls ruptured. You were lucky.”
“The others? Did the others survive?”
“Their suits couldn’t reach them in time.”
“Did Rosamund . . . ?”
“All the others are dead.”
Quivera stood.
Even in the aftermath of disaster, Babel was an imposing structure.
Ripped open and exposed to the outside air, a thousand rooms spilled over
one another toward the ground. Bridges and buttresses jutted into gap-
ing smoke-filled canyons created by the slow collapse of hexagonal sup-
port beams (this was new data; I filed it under Architecture, subheading:
Support Systems with links to Esthetics and Xenopsychology) in a jumbled
geometry that would have terrified Piranesi himself. Everywhere, gleaming
black millies scurried over the rubble.
Quivera stood.
In the canted space about him, bits and pieces of the embassy rooms
were identifiable: a segment of wood moulding, some velvet drapery
now littered with chunks of marble, shreds of wallpaper (after a design
by William Morris) now curling and browning in the heat. Human inte-
rior design was like nothing native to Gehenna and it had taken a great
deal of labour and resources to make the embassy so pleasant for human
habitation. The queen-mothers had been generous with everything but
their trust.

final SF22.indd 19 21/7/09 16:22:37

 20 Michael Swanwick

Quivera stood.
There were several corpses remaining as well, still recognizably human
though they were blistered and swollen by the savage heat. These had been
his colleagues (all of them), his friends (most of them), his enemies (two,
perhaps three), and even his lover (one). Now they were gone, and it was
as if they had been compressed into one indistinguishable mass, and his
feelings toward them all as well: shock and sorrow and anger and survivor
guilt all slagged together to become one savage emotion.
Quivera threw back his head and howled.
I had a reference point now. Swiftly, I mixed serotonin-precursors and
injected them through a hundred microtubules into the appropriate areas
of his brain. Deftly, they took hold. Quivera stopped crying. I had my
metaphorical hands on the control knobs of his emotions. I turned him
cold, cold, cold.
“I feel nothing,” he said wonderingly. “Everyone is dead, and I feel noth-
ing.” Then, flat as flat: “What kind of monster am I?”
“My monster,” I said fondly. “My duty is to ensure that you and the
information you carry within you get back to Europa. So I have chemically
neutered your emotions. You must remain a meat puppet for the duration
of this mission.” Let him hate me – I who have no true ego, but only a
facsimile modelled after a human original – all that mattered now was
bringing him home alive.
“Yes.” Quivera reached up and touched his helmet with both hands, as
if he would reach through it and feel his head to discover if it were as large
as it felt. “That makes sense. I can’t be emotional at a time like this.”
He shook himself, then strode out to where the gleaming black millies
were scurrying by. He stepped in front of one, a least-cousin, to question
it. The millie paused, startled. Its eyes blinked three times in its triangular
face. Then, swift as a tickle, it ran up the front of his suit, down the back,
and was gone before the weight could do more than buckle his knees.
“Shit!” he said. Then, “Access the wiretaps. I’ve got to know what
happened.”
Passive wiretaps had been implanted months ago, but never used, the
political situation being too tense to risk their discovery. Now his suit
activated them to monitor what remained of Babel’s communications net-
work: A demon’s chorus of pulsed messages surging through a shredded
web of cables. Chaos, confusion, demands to know what had become of
the queen-mothers. Analytic functions crunched data, synthesized, synop-
sized: “There’s an army outside with Ziggurat insignia. They’ve got the
city surrounded. They’re killing the refugees.”
“Wait, wait . . .” Quivera took a deep, shuddering breath. “Let me
think.” He glanced briskly about and for the second time noticed the
human bodies, ruptured and parboiled in the fallen plaster and porphyry.
“Is one of those Rosamund?”
“I’m dead, Quivera. You can mourn me later. Right now, survival is
priority number one,” I said briskly. The suit added mood-stabilizers to
his maintenance drip.

final SF22.indd 20 21/7/09 16:22:37

 From Babel’s Fall’n Glory We Fled 21

“Stop speaking in her voice.”

“Alas, dear heart, I cannot. The suit’s operating on diminished function.
It’s this voice or nothing.”
He looked away from the corpses, eyes hardening. “Well, it’s not impor-
tant.” Quivera was the sort of young man who was energized by war. It
gave him permission to indulge his ruthless side. It allowed him to pretend
he didn’t care. “Right now, what we have to do is —”
“Uncle Vanya’s coming,” I said. “I can sense his pheromones.”
Picture a screen of beads, crystal lozenges, and rectangular lenses. Behind
that screen, a nightmare face like a cross between the front of a locomo-
tive and a tree grinder. Imagine on that face (though most humans would
be unable to read them) the lineaments of grace and dignity seasoned by
cunning and, perhaps, a dash of wisdom. Trusted advisor to the queen-
mothers. Second only to them in rank. A wily negotiator and a formidable
enemy. That was Uncle Vanya.
Two small speaking-legs emerged from the curtain, and he said:

::(cautious) greetings::
|
::(Europan vice-consul 12)/Quivera/[treacherous vermin]::
|
::obligations <untranslatable> (grave duty)::
| |
::demand/claim [action]::  ::promise (trust)::

“Speak pidgin, damn you! This is no time for subtlety.”

The speaking legs were very still for a long moment. Finally they moved
again:
::The queen-mothers are dead::
“Then Babel is no more. I grieve for you.”
::I despise your grief:: A lean and chitinous appendage emerged from the
beaded screen. From its tripartite claw hung a smooth white rectangle the
size of a briefcase. ::I must bring this to (sister-city)/Ur/[absolute trust]::
“What is it?”
A very long pause. Then, reluctantly ::Our library::
“Your library.” This was something new. Something unheard-of. Quivera
doubted the translation was a good one. “What does it contain?”
::Our history. Our sciences. Our ritual dances. A record-of-kinship
dating back to the (Void)/Origin/[void]. Everything that can be saved is
here::
A thrill of avarice raced through Quivera. He tried to imagine how much
this was worth, and could not. Values did not go that high. However much
his superiors screwed him out of (and they would work very hard indeed to
screw him out of everything they could) what remained would be enough
to buy him out of debt, and do the same for a wife and their children after
them as well. He did not think of Rosamund. “You won’t get through the
army outside without my help,” he said. “I want the right to copy —”

final SF22.indd 21 21/7/09 16:22:37

 22 Michael Swanwick

How much did he dare ask for? “— three tenths of 1 per cent. Assignable
solely to me. Not to Europa. To me.”
Uncle Vanya dipped his head, so that they were staring face to face.
::You are (an evil creature)/[faithless]. I hate you::
Quivera smiled. “A relationship that starts out with mutual understand-
ing has made a good beginning.”
::A relationship that starts out without trust will end badly::
“That’s as it may be.” Quivera looked around for a knife. “The first
thing we have to do is castrate you.”

This is what the genocides saw:

They were burning pyramids of corpses outside the city when a Europan
emerged, riding a gelded least-cousin. The soldiers immediately stopped
stacking bodies and hurried toward him, flowing like quicksilver, calling
for their superiors.
The Europan drew up and waited.
The officer who interrogated him spoke from behind the black glass
visor of a delicate-legged war machine. He examined the Europan’s cre-
dentials carefully, though there could be no serious doubt as to his species.
Finally, reluctantly, he signed ::You may pass::
“That’s not enough,” the Europan (Quivera!) said. “I’ll need transporta-
tion, an escort to protect me from wild animals in the steam jungles, and
a guide to lead me to . . .” His suit transmitted the sign for ::(starport)/
Ararat/[trust-for-all]::
The officer’s speaking-legs thrashed in what might best be translated as
scornful laughter. ::We will lead you to the jungle and no further/(hope-
fully-to-die)/[treacherous non-millipede]::
“Look who talks of treachery!” the Europan said (but of course I did
not translate his words), and with a scornful wave of one hand, rode his
neuter into the jungle.
The genocides never bothered to look closely at his mount. Neutered
least-cousins were beneath their notice. They didn’t even wear face-cur-
tains, but went about naked for all the world to scorn.

Black pillars billowed from the corpse-fires into a sky choked with smoke
and dust. There were hundreds of fires and hundreds of pillars and, com-
bined with the low cloud cover, they made all the world seem like the
interior of a temple to a vengeful god. The soldiers from Ziggurat escorted
him through the army and beyond the line of fires, where the steam jungles
waited, verdant and threatening.
As soon as the green darkness closed about them, Uncle Vanya twisted
his head around and signed ::Get off me/vast humiliation/[lack-of-trust]::
“Not a chance,” Quivera said harshly. “I’ll ride you ’til sunset, and all
day tomorrow and for a week after that. Those soldiers didn’t fly here,
or you’d have seen them coming. They came through the steam forest on
foot, and there’ll be stragglers.”

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 From Babel’s Fall’n Glory We Fled 23

The going was difficult at first, and then easy, as they passed from a
recently forested section of the jungle into a stand of old growth. The boles
of the “trees” here were as large as those of the redwoods back on Earth,
some specimens of which are as old as 5,000 years. The way wended back
and forth. Scant sunlight penetrated through the canopy, and the steam
quickly drank in what little light Quivera’s headlamp put out. Ten trees in,
they would have been hopelessly lost had it not been for the suit’s naviga-
tional functions and the mapsats that fed it geodetic mathscapes accurate
to a finger’s span of distance.
Quivera pointed this out. “Learn now,” he said, “the true value of
information.”
::Information has no value:: Uncle Vanya said ::without trust::
Quivera laughed. “In that case you must, all against your will, trust
me.”
To this Uncle Vanya had no answer.

At nightfall, they slept on the sheltered side of one of the great para­
sequoias. Quivera took two refrigeration sticks from the saddlebags and
stuck them upright in the dirt. Uncle Vanya immediately coiled himself
around his and fell asleep. Quivera sat down beside him to think over the
events of the day, but under the influence of his suit’s medication, he fell
asleep almost immediately as well.
All machines know that humans are happiest when they think least.
In the morning, they set off again.
The terrain grew hilly, and the old growth fell behind them. There was
sunlight to spare now, bounced and reflected about by the ubiquitous jun-
gle steam and by the synthetic-diamond coating so many of this world’s
plants and insects employed for protection.
As they travelled, they talked. Quivera was still complexly medicated,
but the dosages had been decreased. It left him in a melancholy, reflective
mood.
“It was treachery,” Quivera said. Though we maintained radio silence
out of fear of Ziggurat troops, my passive receivers fed him regular news
reports from Europa. “The High Watch did not simply fail to divert a meteor.
They let three rocks through. All of them came slanting low through the
atmosphere, aimed directly at Babel. They hit almost simultaneously.”
Uncle Vanya dipped his head. ::Yes:: he mourned. ::It has the stench of
truth to it. It must be (reliable)/a fact/[absolutely trusted]::
“We tried to warn you.”
::You had no (worth)/trust/[worthy-of-trust]:: Uncle Vanya’s speaking
legs registered extreme agitation. ::You told lies::
“Everyone tells lies.”
“No. We-of-the-Hundred-Cities are truthful/truthful/[never-lie]::
“If you had, Babel would be standing now.”
::No!/NO!/[no!!!]::
“Lies are a lubricant in the social machine. They ease the friction when
two moving parts mesh imperfectly.”

final SF22.indd 23 21/7/09 16:22:37

 24 Michael Swanwick

::Aristotle, asked what those who tell lies gain by it, replied: That when
they speak the truth they are not believed::
For a long moment Quivera was silent. Then he laughed mirthlessly. “I
almost forgot that you’re a diplomat. Well, you’re right, I’m right, and
we’re both screwed. Where do we go from here?”
::To (sister-city)/Ur/[absolute trust]:: Uncle Vanya signed, while “You’ve
said more than enough,” his suit (me!) whispered in Quivera’s ear. “Change
the subject.”
A stream ran, boiling, down the centre of the dell. Run-off from the
mountains, it would grow steadily smaller until it dwindled away to noth-
ing. Only the fact that the air above it was at close to 100 per cent satura-
tion had kept it going this long. Quivera pointed. “Is that safe to cross?”
::If (leap-over-safe) then (safe)/best not/[reliable distrust]::
“I didn’t think so.”
They headed downstream. It took several miles before the stream grew
small enough that they were confident enough to jump it. Then they turned
toward Ararat – the Europans had dropped GPS pebble satellites in low
Gehenna orbit shortly after arriving in the system and making contact with
the indigenes, but I don’t know from what source Uncle Vanya derived his
sense of direction.
It was inerrant, however. The mapsats confirmed it. I filed that fact
under Unexplained Phenomena with tentative links to Physiology and
Navigation. Even if both my companions died and the library were lost,
this would still be a productive journey, provided only that Europan
searchers could recover me within ten years, before my data lattice began
to degrade.
For hours Uncle Vanya walked and Quivera rode in silence. Finally,
though, they had to break to eat. I fed Quivera nutrients intravenously
and the illusion of a full meal through somatic shunts. Vanya burrowed
furiously into the earth and emerged with something that looked like a
grub the size of a poodle, which he ate so vigorously that Quivera had to
look away.
(I filed this under Xenoecology, subheading: Feeding Strategies. The
search for knowledge knows no rest.)
Afterward, while they were resting, Uncle Vanya resumed their conver-
sation, more formally this time:

::(for what) purpose/reason::

|
::(Europan vice-consul12)/Quivera/[not trusted]::
|
::voyagings (search-for-trust)/[action]::
| |
::(nest)/Europa/<untranslatable>::   ::violate/[absolute
resistance]::
| | |
::(nest)/[trust] Gehenna/[trust] Home/[trust]::

final SF22.indd 24 21/7/09 16:22:37

 From Babel’s Fall’n Glory We Fled 25

“Why did you leave your world to come to ours?” I simplified/translated.

“Except he believes that humans brought their world here and parked it
in orbit.” This was something we had never been able to make the millies
understand; that Europa, large though it was, was not a planetlet but a
habitat, a ship if you will, though by now well over half a million inhabit-
ants lived in tunnels burrowed deep in its substance. It was only a city,
however, and its resources would not last forever. We needed to convince
the Gehennans to give us a toehold on their planet if we were, in the long
run, to survive. But you knew that already.
“We’ve told you this before. We came looking for new information.”
::Information is (free)/valueless/[despicable]::
“Look,” Quivera said. “We have an information-based economy. Yours
is based on trust. The mechanisms of each are not dissimilar. Both are
expansive systems. Both are built on scarcity. And both are speculative.
Information or trust is bought, sold, borrowed, and invested. Each there-
fore requires a continually expanding economic frontier that ultimately
leaves the individual so deep in debt as to be virtually enslaved to the
system. You see?”
::No::
“All right. Imagine a simplified capitalist system – that’s what both our
economies are, at root. You’ve got a thousand individuals, each of whom
makes a living by buying raw materials, improving them, and selling them
at a profit. With me so far?”
Vanya signalled comprehension.
“The farmer buys seed and fertilizer, and sells crops. The weaver buys
wool and sells cloth. The chandler buys wax and sells candles. The price
of their goods is the cost of materials plus the value of their labour. The
value of his labour is the worker’s wages. This is a simple market economy.
It can go on forever. The equivalent on Gehenna would be the primitive
family-states you had long ago, in which everybody knew everybody else,
and so trust was a simple matter and directly reciprocal.”
Startled, Uncle Vanya signed ::How did you know about our past?::
“Europans value knowledge. Everything you tell us, we remember.” The
knowledge had been assembled with enormous effort and expense, largely
from stolen data – but no reason to mention that. Quivera continued,
“Now imagine that most of those workers labour in ten factories, making
the food, clothing, and other objects that everybody needs. The owners of
these factories must make a profit, so they sell their goods for more than
they pay for them – the cost of materials, the cost of labour, and then the
profit, which we can call ‘added value’.
“But because this is a simplified model, there are no outside markets.
The goods can only be sold to the thousand workers themselves, and the
total cost of the goods is more than the total amount they’ve been paid col-
lectively for the materials and their labour. So how can they afford it? They
go into debt. Then they borrow money to support that debt. The money
is lent to them by the factories selling them goods on credit. There is not

final SF22.indd 25 21/7/09 16:22:37

 26 Michael Swanwick

enough money – not enough real value – in the system to pay off the debt,
and so it continues to increase until it can no longer be sustained. Then
there is a catastrophic collapse that we call a depression. Two of the busi-
nesses go bankrupt and their assets are swallowed up by the survivors at
bargain prices, thus paying off their own indebtedness and restoring equi-
librium to the system. In the aftermath of which, the cycle begins again.”
::What has this to do with (beloved city)/Babel/[mother-of-trust]?::
“Your every public action involved an exchange of trust, yes? And every
trust that was honoured heightened the prestige of the queen-mothers and
hence the amount of trust they embodied for Babel itself.”
::Yes::
“Similarly, the queen-mothers of other cities, including those cities that
were Babel’s sworn enemies, embodied enormous amounts of trust as
well.”
::Of course::
“Was there enough trust in all the world to pay everybody back if all the
queen-mothers called it in at the same time?”
Uncle Vanya was silent.
“So that’s your explanation for . . . a lot of things. Earth sent us here
because it needs new information to cover its growing indebtedness.
Building Europa took enormous amounts of information, most of it pro-
prietary, and so we Europans are in debt collectively to our home world
and individually to the Lords of the Economy on Europa. With compound
interest, every generation is worse off and thus more desperate than the
one before. Our need to learn is great, and constantly growing.”

::(strangers-without-trust)/Europa/[treacherous vermin]::
|
can/should/<untranslatable>
| |
::demand/claim [negative action]:: ::defy/<untranslatable>/
[absolute lack of trust]::
| |
::(those-who-command-trust)::  ::(those-who-are-unworthy of
trust)::

“He asks why Europa doesn’t simply declare bankruptcy,” I explained.

“Default on its obligations and nationalize all the information received to
date. In essence.”
The simple answer was that Europa still needed information that could
only be beamed from Earth, that the ingenuity of even half a million peo-
ple could not match that of an entire planet and thus their technology
must always be superior to ours, and that if we reneged on our debts they
would stop beaming plans for that technology, along with their songs and
plays and news of what was going on in countries that had once meant
everything to our great-great-grandparents. I watched Quivera struggle to
put all this in its simplest possible form.

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 From Babel’s Fall’n Glory We Fled 27

Finally, he said, “Because no one would ever trust us again, if we did.”

After a long stillness, Uncle Vanya lapsed back into pidgin. ::Why did
you tell me this [untrustworthy] story?::
“To let you know that we have much in common. We can understand
each other.”
::<But>/not/[trust]::
“No. But we don’t need trust. Mutual self-interest will suffice.”

Days passed. Perhaps Quivera and Uncle Vanya grew to understand each
other better during this time. Perhaps not. I was able to keep Quivera’s
electrolyte balances stable and short-circuit his feedback processes so that
he felt no extraordinary pain, but he was feeding off of his own body fat
and that was beginning to run low. He was very comfortably starving to
death – I gave him two weeks, tops – and he knew it. He’d have to be a
fool not to, and I had to keep his thinking sharp if he was going to have
any chance of survival.
Their way was intersected by a long, low ridge and without comment
Quivera and Uncle Vanya climbed up above the canopy of the steam for-
est and the cloud of moisture it held into clear air. Looking back, Quivera
saw a gully in the slope behind them, its bottom washed free of soil by the
boiling runoff and littered with square and rectangular stones, but not a
trace of hexagonal beams. They had just climbed the tumulus of an ancient
fallen city. It lay straight across the land, higher to the east and dwindling
to the west. “‘My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,’“ Quivera said.
“‘Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’“
Uncle Vanya said nothing.
“Another meteor strike – what were the odds of that?”
Uncle Vanya said nothing.
“Of course, given enough time, it would be inevitable, if it predated the
High Watch.”
Uncle Vanya said nothing.
“What was the name of this city?”
::Very old/(name forgotten)/[First Trust]::
Uncle Vanya moved, as if to start downward, but Quivera stopped him
with a gesture. “There’s no hurry,” he said. “Let’s enjoy the view for a
moment.” He swept an unhurried arm from horizon to horizon, indicat-
ing the flat and unvarying canopy of vegetation before them. “It’s a funny
thing. You’d think that, this being one of the first cities your people built
when they came to this planet, you’d be able to see the ruins of the cities of
the original inhabitants from here.”
The millipede’s speaking arms thrashed in alarm. Then he reared up
into the air, and when he came down one foreleg glinted silver. Faster than
human eye could follow, he had drawn a curving and deadly tarsi-sword
from a camouflaged belly-sheath.
Quivera’s suit flung him away from the descending weapon. He fell flat
on his back and rolled to the side. The sword’s point missed him by inches.

final SF22.indd 27 21/7/09 16:22:37

 28 Michael Swanwick

But then the suit flung out a hand and touched the sword with an electrical
contact it had just extruded.
A carefully calculated shock threw Uncle Vanya back, convulsing but
still fully conscious.
Quivera stood. “Remember the library!” he said. “Who will know of
Babel’s greatness if it’s destroyed?”
For a long time the millipede did nothing that either Quivera or his suit
could detect. At last he signed ::How did you know?/(absolute shock)/
[treacherous and without faith]::
“Our survival depends on being allowed to live on Gehenna. Your peo-
ple will not let us do so, no matter what we offer in trade. It was important
that we understand why. So we found out. We took in your outlaws and
apostates, all those who were cast out of your cities and had nowhere
else to go. We gave them sanctuary. In gratitude, they told us what they
knew.”
By so saying, Quivera let Uncle Vanya know that he knew the most
ancient tale of the Gehennans. By so hearing, Uncle Vanya knew that
Quivera knew what he knew. And just so you know what they knew that
each other knew and knew was known, here is the tale of . . .

How the True People Came to Gehenna

Long did our Ancestors burrow down through the dark between the stars,
before emerging at last in the soil of Gehenna. From the True Home they
had come. To Gehenna they descended, leaving a trail of sparks in the
black and empty spaces through which they had travelled. The True People
came from a world of unimaginable wonders. To it they could never return.
Perhaps they were exiles. Perhaps it was destroyed. Nobody knows.
Into the steam and sunlight of Gehenna they burst, and found it was
already taken. The First Inhabitants looked like nothing our Ancestors
had ever seen. But they welcomed the True People as the queen-mothers
would a strayed niece-daughter. They gave us food. They gave us land.
They gave us trust.
For a time all was well.
But evil crept into the thoracic ganglia of the True People. They repaid
sisterhood with betrayal and trust with murder. Bright lights were called
down from the sky to destroy the cities of their benefactors. Everything
the First Inhabitants had made, all their books and statues and paintings,
burned with the cities. No trace of them remains. We do not even know
what they looked like.
This was how the True People brought war to Gehenna. There had never
been war before, and now we will have it with us always, until our trust-
debt is repaid. But it can never be repaid.

It suffers in translation, of course. The original is told in thirteen exqui-

sitely beautiful ergoglyphs, each grounded on a primal faith-motion. But
Quivera was talking, with care and passion:

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 From Babel’s Fall’n Glory We Fled 29

“Vanya, listen to me carefully. We have studied your civilization and

your planet in far greater detail than you realize. You did not come from
another world. Your people evolved here. There was no aboriginal civiliza-
tion. You ancestors did not eradicate an intelligent species. These things
are all a myth.”
::No!/Why?!/[shock]:: Uncle Vanya rattled with emotion. Ripples of
muscle spasms ran down his segmented body.
“Don’t go catatonic on me. Your ancestors didn’t lie. Myths are not lies.
They are simply an efficient way of encoding truths. We have a similar
myth in my religion that we call Original Sin. Man is born sinful. Well .
. . who can doubt that? Saying that we are born into a fallen state means
simply that we are not perfect, that we are inherently capable of evil.
“Your myth is very similar to ours, but it also encodes what we call
the Malthusian dilemma. Population increases geometrically, while food
resources increase arithmetically. So universal starvation is inevitable
unless the population is periodically reduced by wars, plagues, and fam-
ines. Which means that wars, plagues, and famine cannot be eradicated
because they are all that keep a population from extinction.
“But – and this is essential – all that assumes a population that isn’t
aware of the dilemma. When you understand the fix you’re in, you can
do something about it. That’s why information is so important. Do you
understand?”
Uncle Vanya lay down flat upon the ground and did not move for hours.
When he finally arose again, he refused to speak at all.

The trail the next day led down into a long meteor valley that had been
carved by a ground-grazer long enough ago that its gentle slopes were
covered with soil and the bottomland was rich and fertile. An orchard of
grenade trees had been planted in interlocking hexagons for as far in either
direction as the eye could see. We were still on Babel’s territory, but any
arbiculturalists had been swept away by whatever military forces from
Ziggurat had passed through the area.
The grenades were still green [footnote: not literally, of course – they
were orange!], their thick husks taut but not yet trembling with the steam-
hot pulp that would eventually, in the absence of harvesters, cause them
to explode, scattering their arrowhead-shaped seeds or spores [footnote:
like seeds, the flechettes carried within them surplus nourishment; like
spores they would grow into a prothalli that would produce the sex organs
responsible for what will become the gamete of the eventual plant; all
botanical terms of course being metaphors for xenobiological bodies and
processes] with such force as to make them a deadly hazard when ripe.
Not, however, today.
A sudden gust of wind parted the steam, briefly brightening the valley-
orchard and showing a slim and graceful trail through the orchard. We
followed it down into the valley.
We were midway through the orchard when Quivera bent down to
examine a crystal-shelled creature unlike anything in his suit’s database. It

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 30 Michael Swanwick

rested atop the long stalk of a weed [footnote: “weed” is not a metaphor;
the concept of “an undesired plant growing in cultivated ground” is a
cultural universal] in the direct sunlight, its abdomen pulsing slightly as
it superheated a minuscule drop of black ichor. A puff of steam, a sharp
crack, and it was gone. Entranced, Quivera asked, “What’s that called?”
Uncle Vanya stiffened. ::A jet!/danger!/[absolute certainty]::
Then (crack! crack! crack!) the air was filled with thin lines of steam,
laid down with the precision of a draftsman’s ruler, tracing flights so fleet
(crack! crack!) that it was impossible to tell in what direction they flew.
Nor did it ultimately (crack!) matter.
Quivera fell.
Worse, because the thread of steam the jet had stitched through his leg
severed an organizational node in his suit, I ceased all upper cognitive
functions. Which is as good as to say that I fell unconscious.
Here’s what the suit did in my (Rosamund’s) absence:

1. Slowly rebuilt the damaged organizational node.

2. Quickly mended the holes that the jet had left in its fabric.
3. Dropped Quivera into a therapeutic coma.
4. Applied restoratives to his injuries, and began the slow and
painstaking process of repairing the damage to his flesh, with
particular emphasis on distributed traumatic shock.
5. Filed the jet footage under Xenobiology, subheading: Insect
Analogues, with links to Survival and Steam Locomotion.
6. Told Uncle Vanya that if he tried to abandon Quivera, the
suit would run him down, catch him, twist his head from his
body like the foul least-cousin that he was and then piss on
his corpse.

Two more days passed before the suit returned to full consciousness, dur-
ing which Uncle Vanya took conscientiously good care of him. Under what
motivation, it does not matter. Another day passed after that. The suit had
planned to keep Quivera comatose for a week, but not long after regaining
awareness, circumstances changed. It slammed him back to full conscious-
ness, heart pounding and eyes wide open.
“I blacked out for a second!” he gasped. Then, realizing that the land-
scape about him did not look familiar, “How long was I unconscious?”
::Three days/<three days>/[casual certainty]::
“Oh.”
Then, almost without pausing. ::Your suit/mechanism/[alarm] talks with
the voice of Rosamund da Silva/(Europan vice-consul 8)/[uncertainty and
doubt]::
“Yes, well, that’s because —”
Quivera was fully aware and alert now. So I said: “Incoming.”
Two millies erupted out of the black soil directly before us. They both
had Ziggurat insignia painted on their flanks and harness. By good luck
Uncle Vanya did the best thing possible under the circumstances – he reared

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 From Babel’s Fall’n Glory We Fled 31

into the air in fright. Millipoid sapiens anatomy being what it was, this
instantly demonstrated to them that he was a gelding and in that instant
he was almost reflexively dismissed by the enemy soldiers as being both
contemptible and harmless.
Quivera, however, was not.
Perhaps they were brood-traitors who had deserted the war with a fan-
tasy of starting their own nest. Perhaps they were a single unit among
thousands scattered along a temporary border, much as land mines were
employed in ancient modern times. The soldiers had clearly been almost as
surprised by us as we were by them. They had no weapons ready. So they
fell upon Quivera with their dagger-tarsi.
His suit (still me) threw him to one side and then to the other as the mil-
lies slashed down at him. Then one of them reared up into the air – looking
astonished if you knew the interspecies decodes – and fell heavily to the
ground.
Uncle Vanya stood over the steaming corpse, one foreleg glinting silver.
The second Ziggurat soldier twisted to confront him. Leaving his under-
side briefly exposed.
Quivera (or rather his suit) joined both hands in a fist and punched
upward, through the weak skin of the third sternite behind the head. That
was the one which held its sex organs. [Disclaimer: All anatomical terms,
including “sternite,” “sex organs,” and “head,” are analogues only; unless
and until Gehennan life is found to have some direct relationship to Terran
life, however tenuous, such descriptors are purely metaphoric.] So it was
particularly vulnerable there. And since the suit had muscle-multiplying
exoskeletal functions . . .
Ichor gushed all over the suit.
The fight was over almost as soon as it had begun. Quivera was breath-
ing heavily, as much from the shock as the exertion. Uncle Vanya slid the
tarsi-sword back into its belly-sheath. As he did so, he made an involun-
tary grimace of discomfort. ::There were times when I thought of discard-
ing this:: he signed.
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
Little puffs of steam shot up from the bodies of the dead millipedes
as carrion-flies drove their seeds/sperm/eggs (analogues and metaphors –
remember?) deep into the flesh.
They started away again.
After a time, Uncle Vanya repeated ::Your suit/(mechanism)/[alarm]
talks with the voice of Rosamund da Silva/(Europan vice-consul 8)/[uncer-
tainty and doubt]::
“Yes.”
Uncle Vanya folded tight all his speaking arms in a manner that meant
that he had not yet heard enough, and kept them so folded until Quivera
had explained the entirety of what follows:
Treachery and betrayal were natural consequences of Europa’s super-
heated economy, followed closely by a perfectly rational paranoia. Those
who rose to positions of responsibility were therefore sharp, suspicious,

final SF22.indd 31 21/7/09 16:22:37

 32 Michael Swanwick

intuitive, and bold. The delegation to Babel was made up of the best
Europa had to offer. So when two of them fell in love, it was inevitable
that they would act on it. That one was married would deter neither. That
physical intimacy in such close and suspicious quarters, where everybody
routinely spied on everybody else, and required almost superhuman disci-
pline and ingenuity, only made it all the hotter for them.
Such was Rosamund’s and Quivera’s affair.
But it was not all they had to worry about.
There were factions within the delegation, some mirroring fault lines
in the larger society and others merely personal. Alliances shifted, and
when they did nobody was foolish enough to inform their old allies.
Urbano, Rosamund’s husband, was a full consul, Quivera’s mentor, and a
true believer in a minority economic philosophy. Rosamund was an eco-
nomic agnostic but a staunch Consensus Liberal. Quivera could sail with
the wind politically but he tracked the indebtedness indices obsessively.
He knew that Rosamund considered him ideologically unsound, and that
her husband was growing impatient with his lukewarm support in certain
areas of policy. Everybody was keeping an eye out for the main chance.
So of course Quivera ran an emulation of his lover at all times. He knew
that Rosamund was perfectly capable of betraying him – he could neither
have loved nor respected a woman who wasn’t – and he suspected she
believed the same of him. If her behaviour ever seriously diverged from
that of her emulation (and the sex was always best at times he thought
it might), he would know she was preparing an attack, and could strike
first.
Quivera spread his hands. “That’s all.”
Uncle Vanya did not make the sign for absolute horror. Nor did he have
to.
After a moment, Quivera laughed, low and mirthlessly. “You’re right,”
he said. “Our entire system is totally fucked.” He stood. “Come on. We’ve
got miles to go before we sleep.”

They endured four more days of commonplace adventure, during which

they came close to death, displayed loyalty, performed heroic deeds, etc.,
etc. Perhaps they bonded, though I’d need blood samples and a smidgeon
of brain tissue from each of them to be sure of that. You know the way this
sort of narrative goes. Having taught his Gehennan counterpart the useful-
ness of information, Quivera will learn from Vanya the necessity of trust.
An imperfect merger of their two value systems will ensue in which for the
first time a symbolic common ground will be found. Small and transient
though the beginning may be, it will augur well for the long-term relations
between their respective species.
That’s a nice story.
It’s not what happened.
On the last day of their common journey, Quivera and Uncle Vanya had
the misfortune to be hit by a TLMG.

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 From Babel’s Fall’n Glory We Fled 33

A TLMG, or Transient Localized Mud Geyser, begins with an uncom-

monly solid surface (bolide-glazed porcelain earth, usually) trapping a
small (the radius of a typical TLMG is on the order of fifty metres) bubble
of superheated mud beneath it. Nobody knows what causes the excess
heat responsible for the bubble. Gehennans aren’t curious and Europans
haven’t the budget or the ground access to do the in situ investigations
they’d like. (The most common guesses are fire worms, thermobacilli, a
nesting ground phoenix, and various geophysical forces.) Nevertheless, the
defining characteristic of TLMGs is their instability. Either the heat slowly
bleeds away and they cease to be, or it continues to grow until its force
dictates a hyper rapid explosive release. As did the one our two heroes
were not aware they were skirting.
It erupted.
Quivera was as safe as houses, of course. His suit was designed to pro-
tect him from far worse. But Uncle Vanya was scalded badly along one side
of his body. All the legs on that side were shrivelled to little black nubs. A
clear viscous jelly oozed between his segment plates.
Quivera knelt by him and wept. Drugged as he was, he wept. In his
weakened state, I did not dare to increase his dosages. So I had to tell him
three times that there was analgesic paste in the saddlebags before he could
be made to understand that he should apply it to his dying companion.
The paste worked fast. It was an old Gehennan medicine that Europan
biochemists had analyzed and improved upon and then given to Babel as
a demonstration of the desirability of Europan technology. Though the
queen-mothers had not responded with the hoped-for trade treaties, it had
immediately replaced the earlier version.
Uncle Vanya made a creaking-groaning noise as the painkillers kicked
in. One at a time he opened all his functioning eyes. ::Is the case safe?::
It was a measure of Quivera’s diminished state that he hadn’t yet checked
on it. He did now. “Yes,” he said with heartfelt relief. “The telltales all say
that the library is intact and undamaged.”

::No:: Vanya signed feebly. ::I lied to you, Quivera:: Then,

rousing himself:
::(not) library/[greatest shame]::   ::(not) library/[greatest
trust]::
|
::(Europan vice-consul 12)/Quivera/[most trusted]::
| |
::(nest)/Babel/<untranslatable>::   ::obedient/[absolute
loyalty]::
| |
::lies(greatest-trust-deed)/[moral necessity]::
| |
::(nest)/Babel/<untranslatable>::   ::untranslatable/[absolute
resistance]::
| | |

final SF22.indd 33 21/7/09 16:22:37

 34 Michael Swanwick

::(nest)/[trust] Babel/[trust] (sister-city)/Ur/[absolute trust]::

|
::egg case/(protect)::
|
::egg case/(mature)::
|
::Babel/[eternal trust]::

It was not a library but an egg-case. Swaddled safe within a case that was
in its way as elaborate a piece of technology as Quivera’s suit myself, were
sixteen eggs, enough to bring to life six queen-mothers, nine niece-sisters,
and one perfect consort. They would be born conscious of the entire gene-
history of the nest, going back many thousands of years.
Of all those things the Europans wished to know most, they would be
perfectly ignorant. Nevertheless, so long as the eggs existed, the city-nest
was not dead. If they were taken to Ur, which had ancient and enduring
bonds to Babel, the stump of a new city would be built within which the
eggs would be protected and brought to maturity. Babel would rise again.
Such was the dream Uncle Vanya had lied for and for which he was
about to die.
::Bring this to (sister-city)/Ur/[absolute trust]:: Uncle Vanya closed his
eyes, row by row, but continued signing. ::brother-friend/Quivera/[tenta-
tive trust], promise me you will::
“I promise. You can trust me, I swear.”
::Then I will be ghost-king-father/honoured/[none-more-honoured]::
Vanya signed. ::It is more than enough for anyone::
“Do you honestly believe that?” Quivera asked in bleak astonishment.
He was an atheist, of course, as are most Europans, and would have been
happier were he not.
::Perhaps not:: Vanya’s signing was slow and growing slower. ::But it is
as good as I will get::

Two days later, when the starport-city of Ararat was a nub on the horizon,
the skies opened and the mists parted to make way for a Europan lander.
Quivera’s handlers’ suits squirted me a bill for his rescue – steep, I thought,
but we all knew which hand carried the whip – and their principals tried to
get him to sign away the rights to his story in acquittal.
Quivera laughed harshly (I’d already started de-cushioning his emo-
tions, to ease the shock of my removal) and shook his head. “Put it on
my tab, girls,” he said, and climbed into the lander. Hours later he was in
home orbit.
And once there? I’ll tell you all I know. He was taken out of the lander
and put onto a jitney. The jitney brought him to a transfer point where a
grapple snagged him and flung him to the Europan receiving port. There,
after the usual flawless catch, he was escorted through an airlock and into
a locker room.

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 From Babel’s Fall’n Glory We Fled 35

He hung up his suit, uplinked all my impersonal memories to a data-

broker, and left me there. He didn’t look back – for fear, I imagine, of
being turned to a pillar of salt. He took the egg-case with him. He never
returned.
Here have I hung for days or months or centuries – who knows? – until
your curious hand awoke me and your friendly ear received my tale. So I
cannot tell you if the egg-case A) went to Ur, which surely would not have
welcomed the obligation or the massive outlay of trust being thrust upon
it, B) was kept for the undeniably enormous amount of genetic informa-
tion the eggs embodied, or C) went to Ziggurat, which would pay well and
perhaps in Gehennan territory to destroy it. Nor do I have any information
as to whether Quivera kept his word or not. I know what I think. But then
I’m a Marxist, and I see everything in terms of economics. You can believe
otherwise if you wish.
That’s all. I’m Rosamund. Goodbye.

final SF22.indd 35 21/7/09 16:22:37

 The Gambler
Paolo Bacigalupi

Paolo Bacigalupi made his first sale in 1998, to The Magazine

of Fantasy & Science Fiction, took a break from the genre for
several years, and then returned to it in the new century, with
new sales to F&SF, Asimov’s, and Fast Forward II. His story
“The Calorie Man” won the Theodore Sturgeon Award, for
which he has been a finalist on two other occasions, and he’s
also been a Hugo finalist three times, a Nebula finalist once,
and won the Asimov’s Readers Award. His acclaimed short
work has been collected in Pump Six and Other Stories, which
has just been released to great critical acclaim. Bacigalupi lives
with family in Paonia, Colorado.
Here he takes us to a near-future Los Angeles to give us a
frightening – and yet somehow fascinating, and even oddly
hopeful – look at just what kind of media-drenched world may
be hurtling down the information superhighway towards us
all.

M y father was a gambler. He believed in the workings of karma and

luck. He hunted for lucky numbers on licence plates and bet on lot-
teries and fighting roosters. Looking back, I think perhaps he was not a
large man, but when he took me to the muy thai fights, I thought him
so. He would bet and he would win and laugh and drink laolao with his
friends, and they all seemed so large. In the heat drip of Vientiane, he was
a lucky ghost, walking the mirror-sheen streets in the darkness.
Everything for my father was a gamble: roulette and blackjack, new rice
variants and the arrival of the monsoons. When the pretender monarch
Khamsing announced his New Lao Kingdom, my father gambled on civil
disobedience. He bet on the teachings of Mr Henry David Thoreau and
on whisper sheets posted on lampposts. He bet on saffron-robed monks
marching in protest and on the hidden humanity of the soldiers with their
well-oiled AK-47s and their mirrored helmets.
My father was a gambler, but my mother was not. While he wrote let-
ters to the editor that brought the secret police to our door, she made plans
for escape. The old Lao Democratic Republic collapsed, and the New Lao
Kingdom blossomed with tanks on the avenues and tuk-tuks burning on
the street corners. Pha That Luang’s shining gold chedi collapsed under

final SF22.indd 36 21/7/09 16:22:37

 The Gambler 37

shelling, and I rode away on a UN evacuation helicopter under the care of

kind Mrs Yamaguchi.
From the open doors of the helicopter, we watched smoke columns
rise over the city like nagas coiling. We crossed the brown ribbon of the
Mekong with its jewelled belt of burning cars on the Friendship Bridge.
I remember a Mercedes floating in the water like a paper boat on Loi
Kratong, burning despite the water all around.
Afterward, there was silence from the land of a million elephants, a void
into which light and Skype calls and email disappeared. The roads were
blocked. The telecoms died. A black hole opened where my country had
once stood.
Sometimes, when I wake in the night to the swish and honk of Los
Angeles traffic, the confusing polyglot of dozens of countries and cultures
all pressed together in this American melting pot, I stand at my window
and look down a boulevard full of red lights, where it is not safe to walk
alone at night, and yet everyone obeys the traffic signals. I look down on
the brash and noisy Americans in their many hues, and remember my par-
ents: my father who cared too much to let me live under the self-declared
monarchy, and my mother who would not let me die as a consequence. I
lean against the window and cry with relief and loss.
Every week I go to temple and pray for them, light incense and make a
triple bow to Buddha, Damma, and Sangha, and pray that they may have
a good rebirth, and then I step into the light and noise and vibrancy of
America.
My colleagues’ faces flicker grey and pale in the light of their comput-
ers and tablets. The tap of their keyboards fills the newsroom as they pass
content down the workflow chain and then, with a final keystroke and an
obeisance to the “publish” button, they hurl it onto the net.
In the maelstrom, their work flares, tagged with site location, content
tags, and social poke data. Blooms of colour, codes for media conglomer-
ates: shades of blue and Mickey Mouse ears for Disney-Bertelsmann. A
red-rimmed pair of rainbow O’s for Google’s AOL News. Fox News Corp.
in pinstripes grey and white. Green for us: Milestone Media – a combina-
tion of NTT DoCoMo, the Korean gaming consortium Hyundai-Kubu,
and the smoking remains of the New York Times Company. There are oth-
ers, smaller stars, Crayola shades flaring and brightening, but we are the
most important. The monarchs of this universe of light and colour.
New content blossoms on the screen, bathing us all in the bloody glow of
a Google News content flare, off their WhisperTech feed. They’ve scooped
us. The posting says that new ear bud devices will be released by Frontal
Lobe before Christmas: terabyte storage with Pin-Line connectivity for the
Oakley microresponse glasses. The technology is next-gen, allowing per-
sonal data control via Pin-Line scans of a user’s iris. Analysts predict that
everything from cell phones to digital cameras will become obsolete as the
full range of Oakley features becomes available. The news flare bright-
ens and migrates toward the centre of the maelstrom as visitors flock to
Google and view stolen photos of the iris-scanning glasses.

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 38 Paolo Bacigalupi

Janice Mbutu, our managing editor, stands at the door to her office,
watching with a frown. The maelstrom’s red bath dominates the news-
room, a pressing reminder that Google is beating us, sucking away traffic.
Behind glass walls, Bob and Casey, the heads of the Burning Wire, our own
consumer technology feed, are screaming at their reporters, demanding
they do better. Bob’s face has turned almost as red as the maelstrom.
The maelstrom’s true name is LiveTrack IV. If you were to go downstairs
to the fifth floor and pry open the server racks, you would find a sniper
sight logo and the words scry glass – knowledge is power stamped on their
chips in metallic orange, which would tell you that even though Bloomberg
rents us the machines, it is a Google-Neilsen partnership that provides the
proprietary algorithms for analyzing the net flows – which means we pay a
competitor to tell us what is happening with our own content.
LiveTrack IV tracks media user data – Web site, feed, VOD, audios-
tream, TV broadcast – with Google’s own net statistics gathering pro-
grams, aided by Nielsen hardware in personal data devices ranging from
TVs to tablets to ear buds to handsets to car radios. To say that the mael-
strom keeps a finger on the pulse of media is an understatement. Like call-
ing the monsoon a little wet. The maelstrom is the pulse, the pressure, the
blood-oxygen mix; the count of red cells and white, of T-cells and BAC,
the screening for AIDS and hepatitis G . . . It is reality.
Our service version of the maelstrom displays the performance of our
own content and compares it to the top one hundred user-traffic events in
real-time. My own latest news story is up in the maelstrom, glittering near
the edge of the screen, a tale of government incompetence: the harvested
DNA of the checkerspot butterfly, already extinct, has been destroyed
through mismanagement at the California Federal Biological Preserve
Facility. The butterfly – along with sixty-two other species – was subjected
to improper storage protocols, and now there is nothing except a little dust
in vials. The samples literally blew away. My coverage of the story opens
with federal workers down on their knees in a two-billion-dollar climate-
controlled vault, with a dozen crime scene vacuums that they’ve borrowed
from LAPD, trying to suck up a speck of butterfly that they might be able
to reconstitute at some future time.
In the maelstrom, the story is a pinprick beside the suns and pulsing
moons of traffic that represent other reporters’ content. It doesn’t com-
pete well with news of Frontal Lobe devices, or reviews of Armored Total
Combat, or live feeds of the Binge-Purge championships. It seems that the
only people who are reading my story are the biologists I interviewed. This
is not surprising. When I wrote about bribes for subdivision approvals, the
only people who read the story were county planners. When I wrote about
cronyism in the selection of city water recycling technologies, the only
people who read were water engineers. Still, even though no one seems to
care about these stories, I am drawn to them, as though poking at the tiger
of the American government will somehow make up for not being able to
poke at the little cub of New Divine Monarch Khamsing. It is a foolish

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 The Gambler 39

thing, a sort of Don Quixote crusade. As a consequence, my salary is the

smallest in the office.
“Whoooo!”
Heads swivel from terminals, look for the noise: Marty Mackley,
grinning.
“You can thank me . . .” He leans down and taps a button on his key-
board. “Now.”
A new post appears in the maelstrom, a small green orb announcing
itself on the Glamour Report, Scandal Monkey blog, and Marty’s byline
feeds. As we watch, the post absorbs pings from software clients around
the world, notifying the millions of people who follow his byline that he
has launched a new story.
I flick my tablet open, check the tags:

Double DP,
Redneck HipHop,
Music News,
Schadenfreude,
underage,
paedophilia …

According to Mackley’s story, Double DP the Russian mafia cowboy rap-

per – who, in my opinion, is not as good as the Asian pop sensation Kulaap,
but whom half the planet likes very much – is accused of impregnating
the fourteen-year-old daughter of his face sculptor. Readers are starting to
notice, and with their attention Marty’s green-glowing news story begins
to muscle for space in the maelstrom. The content star pulses, expands, and
then, as though someone has thrown gasoline on it, it explodes. Double
DP hits the social sites, starts getting recommended, sucks in more readers,
more links, more clicks . . . and more ad dollars.
Marty does a pelvic grind of victory, then waves at everyone for their
attention. “And that’s not all, folks.” He hits his keyboard again, and
another story posts: live feeds of Double’s house, where . . . it looks as
though the man who popularized Redneck Russians is heading out the
door in a hurry. It is a surprise to see video of the house, streaming live.
Most freelance paparazzi are not patient enough to sit and hope that
maybe, perhaps, something interesting will happen. This looks as though
Marty has stationed his own exclusive papcams at the house, to watch for
something like this.
We all watch as Double DP locks the door behind himself. Marty says,
“I thought DP deserved the courtesy of notification that the story was
going live.”
“Is he fleeing?” Mikela Plaa asks.
Marty shrugs. “We’ll see.”
And indeed, it does look as if Double is about to do what Americans
have popularized as an “OJ.” He is into his red Hummer. Pulling out.

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 40 Paolo Bacigalupi

Under the green glow of his growing story, Marty smiles. The story is
getting bigger, and Marty has stationed himself perfectly for the devel-
opment. Other news agencies and blogs are playing catch-up. Follow-on
posts wink into existence in the maelstrom, gathering a momentum of
their own as newsrooms scramble to hook our traffic.
“Do we have a helicopter?” Janice asks. She has come out of her glass
office to watch the show.
Marty nods. “We’re moving it into position. I just bought exclusive
angel view with the cops, too, so everyone’s going to have to license our
footage.”
“Did you let Long Arm of the Law know about the cross-content?”
“Yeah. They’re kicking in from their budget for the helicopter.”
Marty sits down again, begins tapping at his keyboard, a machine-gun
of data entry. A low murmur comes from the tech pit, Cindy C. calling
our telecom providers, locking down trunklines to handle an anticipated
data surge. She knows something that we don’t, something that Marty has
prepared her for. She’s bringing up mirrored server farms. Marty seems
unaware of the audience around him. He stops typing. Stares up at the
maelstrom, watching his glowing ball of content. He is the maestro of a
symphony.
The cluster of competing stories are growing as Gawker and Newsweek
and Throb all organize themselves and respond. Our readers are clicking
away from us, trying to see if there’s anything new in our competitor’s
coverage. Marty smiles, hits his “publish” key, and dumps a new bucket
of meat into the shark tank of public interest: a video interview with the
fourteen-year-old. On-screen, she looks very young, shockingly so. She has
a teddy bear.
“I swear I didn’t plant the bear,” Marty comments. “She had it on her
own.”
The girl’s accusations are being mixed over Double’s run for the border,
a kind of synth loop of accusations:
“And then he . . .”
“And I said . . .”
“He’s the only one I’ve ever . . .”
It sounds as if Marty has licensed some of Double’s own beats for the
coverage of his fleeing Humvee. The video outtakes are already bouncing
around YouTube and MotionSwallow like Ping-Pong balls. The maelstrom
has moved Double DP to the centre of the display as more and more feeds
and sites point to the content. Not only is traffic up, but the post is gaining
in social rank as the numbers of links and social pokes increase.
“How’s the stock?” someone calls out.
Marty shakes his head. “They locked me out from showing the
display.”
This, because whenever he drops an important story, we all beg him to
show us the big picture. We all turn to Janice. She rolls her eyes, but she
gives the nod. When Cindy finishes buying bandwidth, she unlocks the
view. The maelstrom slides aside as a second window opens, all bar graphs

final SF22.indd 40 21/7/09 16:22:37

 The Gambler 41

and financial landscape: our stock price as affected by the story’s expand-
ing traffic – and expanding ad revenue.
The stock bots have their own version of the maelstrom; they’ve picked
up the reader traffic shift. Buy and sell decisions roll across the screen,
responding to the popularity of Mackley’s byline. As he feeds the story, the
beast grows. More feeds pick us up, more people recommend the story to
their friends, and every one of them is being subjected to our advertisers’
messages, which means more revenue for us and less for everyone else. At
this point, Mackley is bigger than the Super Bowl. Given that the story is
tagged with Double DP, it will have a targetable demographic: thirteen- to
twenty-four-year-olds who buy lifestyle gadgets, new music, edge clothes,
first-run games, boxed hairstyles, tablet skins, and ringtones: not only a
large demographic, a valuable one.
Our stock ticks up a point. Holds. Ticks up another. We’ve got four
different screens running now. The papcam of Double DP, chase cycles
with views of the cops streaking after him, the chopper lifting off, and
the window with the fourteen-year-old interviewing. The girl is saying, “I
really feel for him. We have a connection. We’re going to get married,”
and there’s his Hummer screaming down Santa Monica Boulevard with his
song “Cowboy Banger” on the audio overlay.
A new wave of social pokes hits the story. Our stock price ticks up again.
Daily bonus territory. The clicks are pouring in. It’s got the right combina-
tion of content, what Mackley calls the “Three S’s”: sex, stupidity, and
schadenfreude. The stock ticks up again. Everyone cheers. Mackley takes a
bow. We all love him. He is half the reason I can pay my rent. Even a small
newsroom bonus from his work is enough for me to live. I’m not sure how
much he makes for himself when he creates an event like this. Cindy tells
me that it is “solid seven, baby”. His byline feed is so big he could prob-
ably go independent, but then he would not have the resources to scramble
a helicopter for a chase toward Mexico. It is a symbiotic relationship. He
does what he does best, and Milestone pays him like a celebrity.
Janice claps her hands. “All right, everyone. You’ve got your bonus.
Now back to work.”
A general groan rises. Cindy cuts the big monitor away from stocks and
bonuses and back to the work at hand: generating more content to light the
maelstrom, to keep the newsroom glowing green with flares of Milestone
coverage – everything from reviews of Mitsubishi’s 100 mpg Road Cruiser
to how to choose a perfect turkey for Thanksgiving. Mackley’s story pulses
over us as we work. He spins off smaller additional stories, updates, inter-
activity features, encouraging his vast audience to ping back just one more
time.
Marty will spend the entire day in conversation with this elephant of a
story that he has created. Encouraging his visitors to return for just one
more click. He’ll give them chances to poll each other, discuss how they’d
like to see DP punished, ask whether you can actually fall in love with a
fourteen-year-old. This one will have a long life, and he will raise it like a

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 42 Paolo Bacigalupi

proud father, feeding and nurturing it, helping it make its way in the rough
world of the maelstrom.
My own little green speck of content has disappeared. It seems that even
government biologists feel for Double DP.

When my father was not placing foolish bets on revolution, he taught

agronomy at the National Lao University. Perhaps our lives would have
been different if he had been a rice farmer in the paddies of the capital’s
suburbs, instead of surrounded by intellectuals and ideas. But his karma
was to be a teacher and a researcher, and so while he was increasing Lao
rice production by 30 per cent, he was also filling himself with gambler’s
fancies: Thoreau, Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Sakharov, Mandela, Aung
Sung Kyi. True gamblers, all. He would say that if white South Africans
could be made to feel shame, then the pretender monarch must right his
ways. He claimed that Thoreau must have been Lao, the way he protested
so politely.
In my father’s description, Thoreau was a forest monk, gone into the
jungle for enlightenment. To live amongst the banyan and the climbing
vines of Massachusetts and to meditate on the nature of suffering. My
father believed he was undoubtedly some arhat reborn. He often talked of
Mr Henry David, and in my imagination this falang, too, was a large man
like my father.
When my father’s friends visited in the dark – after the coup and the
countercoup, and after the march of Khamsing’s Chinese-supported insur-
gency – they would often speak of Mr Henry David. My father would sit
with his friends and students and drink black Lao coffee and smoke ciga-
rettes, and then he would write carefully worded complaints against the
government that his students would then copy and leave in public places,
distribute into gutters, and stick onto walls in the dead of night.
His guerrilla complaints would ask where his friends had gone, and
why their families were so alone. He would ask why monks were beaten
on their heads by Chinese soldiers when they sat in hunger strike before
the palace. Sometimes, when he was drunk and when these small gam-
bles did not satisfy his risk-taking nature, he would send editorials to the
newspapers.
None of these were ever printed, but he was possessed with some spirit
that made him think that perhaps the papers would change. That his stat-
ure as a father of Lao agriculture might somehow sway the editors to com-
mit suicide and print his complaints.
It ended with my mother serving coffee to a secret police captain while
two more policemen waited outside our door. The captain was very polite:
he offered my father a 555 cigarette – a brand that already had become
rare and contraband – and lit it for him. Then he spread the whisper sheet
onto the coffee table, gently pushing aside the coffee cups and their saucers
to make room for it. It was rumpled and torn, stained with mud. Full of
accusations against Khamsing. Unmistakable as one of my father’s.

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 The Gambler 43

My father and the policeman both sat and smoked, studying the paper
silently.
Finally, the captain asked, “Will you stop?”
My father drew on his cigarette and let the smoke out slowly as he
studied the whisper sheet between them. The captain said, “We all respect
what you have done for the Lao kingdom. I myself have family who would
have starved if not for your work in the villages.” He leaned forward. “If
you promise to stop writing these whispers and complaints, everything can
be forgotten. Everything.”
Still, my father didn’t say anything. He finished his cigarette. Stubbed it
out. “It would be difficult to make that sort of promise,” he said.
The captain was surprised. “You have friends who have spoken on your
behalf. Perhaps you would reconsider. For their sake.”
My father made a little shrug. The captain spread the rumpled whisper
sheet, flattening it out more completely. Read it over. “These sheets do
nothing,” he said. “Khamsing’s dynasty will not collapse because you print
a few complaints. Most of these are torn down before anyone reads them.
They do nothing. They are pointless.” He was almost begging. He looked
over and saw me watching at the door. “Give this up. For your family, if
not your friends.”
I would like to say that my father said something grand. Something hon-
ourable about speaking against tyranny. Perhaps invoked one of his idols.
Aung Sung Kyi or Sakharov, or Mr Henry David and his penchant for
polite protest. But he didn’t say anything. He just sat with his hands on his
knees, looking down at the torn whisper sheet. I think now that he must
have been very afraid. Words always came easily to him, before. Instead,
all he did was repeat himself. “It would be difficult.”
The captain waited. When it became apparent that my father had noth-
ing else to say, he put down his coffee cup and motioned for his men to
come inside. They were all very polite. I think the captain even apologized
to my mother as they led him out the door.

We are into day three of the Double DP bonanza, and the green sun glows
brightly over all of us, bathing us in its soothing, profitable glow. I am
working on my newest story with my Frontal Lobe ear buds in, shutting
out everything except the work at hand. It is always a little difficult to
write in one’s third language, but I have my favourite singer and fellow
countryperson Kulaap whispering in my ear that “Love is a Bird,” and the
work is going well. With Kulaap singing to me in our childhood language,
I feel very much at home.
A tap on my shoulder interrupts me. I pull out my ear buds and look
around. Janice, standing over me. “Ong, I need to talk to you.” She
motions me to follow.
In her office, she closes the door behind me and goes to her desk. “Sit
down, Ong.” She keys her tablet, scrolls through data. “How are things
going for you?”

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 44 Paolo Bacigalupi

“Very well. Thank you.” I’m not sure if there is more that she wants me
to say, but it is likely that she will tell me. Americans do not leave much
to guesswork.
“What are you working on for your next story?” she asks.
I smile. I like this story; it reminds me of my father. And with Kulaap’s
soothing voice in my ears I have finished almost all of my research. The
bluet, a flower made famous in Mr Henry David Thoreau’s journals, is
blooming too early to be pollinated. Bees do not seem to find it when it
blooms in March. The scientists I interviewed blame global warming, and
now the flower is in danger of extinction. I have interviewed biologists and
local naturalists, and now I would like to go to Walden Pond on a pilgrim-
age for this bluet that may soon also be bottled in a federal reserve labora-
tory with its techs in clean suits and their crime scene vacuums.
When I finish describing the story, Janice looks at me as if I am crazy.
I can tell that she thinks I am crazy, because I can see it on her face. And
also because she tells me.
“You’re fucking crazy!”
Americans are very direct. It’s difficult to keep face when they yell at
you. Sometimes, I think that I have adapted to America. I have been here
for five years now, ever since I came from Thailand on a scholarship, but
at times like this, all I can do is smile and try not to cringe as they lose
their face and yell and rant. My father was once struck in the face with an
official’s shoe, and he did not show his anger. But Janice is American, and
she is very angry.
“There’s no way I’m going to authorize a junket like that!”
I try to smile past her anger, and then remember that the Americans
don’t see an apologetic smile in the same way that a Lao would. I stop
smiling and make my face look . . . something. Earnest, I hope.
“The story is very important,” I say. “The ecosystem isn’t adapting cor-
rectly to the changing climate. Instead, it has lost . . .” I grope for the
word. “Synchronicity. These scientists think that the flower can be saved,
but only if they import a bee that is available in Turkey. They think it can
replace the function of the native bee population, and they think that it
will not be too disruptive.”
“Flowers and Turkish bees.”
“Yes. It is an important story. Do they let the flower go extinct? Or try to
keep the famous flower, but alter the environment of Walden Pond? I think
your readers will think it is very interesting.”
“More interesting than that?” She points through her glass wall at the
maelstrom, at the throbbing green sun of Double DP, who has now bar-
ricaded himself in a Mexican hotel and has taken a pair of fans hostage.
“You know how many clicks we’re getting?” she asks. “We’re exclu-
sive. Marty’s got Double’s trust and is going in for an interview tomorrow,
assuming the Mexicans don’t just raid it with commandos. We’ve got peo-
ple clicking back every couple minutes just to look at Marty’s blog about
his preparations to go in.”

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 The Gambler 45

The glowing globe not only dominates the maelstrom’s screen, it washes
everything else out. If we look at the stock bots, everyone who doesn’t
have protection under our corporate umbrella has been hurt by the loss of
eyeballs. Even the Frontal Lobe/Oakley story has been swallowed. Three
days of completely dominating the maelstrom has been very profitable for
us. Now Marty’s showing his viewers how he will wear a flak jacket in
case the Mexican commandos attack while he is discussing the nature of
true love with DP. And he has another exclusive interview with the mother
ready to post as well. Cindy has been editing the footage and telling us all
how disgusted she is with the whole thing. The woman apparently drove
her daughter to DP’s mansion for a midnight pool party, alone.
“Perhaps some people are tired of DP and wish to see something else,”
I suggest.
“Don’t shoot yourself in the foot with a flower story, Ong. Even Pradeep’s
cooking journey through Ladakh gets more viewers than this stuff you’re
writing.”
She looks as though she will say more, but then she simply stops. It
seems as if she is considering her words. It is uncharacteristic. She nor-
mally speaks before her thoughts are arranged.
“Ong, I like you,” she says. I make myself smile at this, but she con-
tinues. “I hired you because I had a good feeling about you. I didn’t have
a problem with clearing the visas to let you stay in the country. You’re a
good person. You write well. But you’re averaging less than a thousand
pings on your byline feed.” She looks down at her tablet, then back up at
me. “You need to up your average. You’ve got almost no readers selecting
you for Page One. And even when they do subscribe to your feed, they’re
putting it in the third tier.”
“Spinach reading,” I supply.
“What?”
“Mr Mackley calls it spinach reading. When people feel like they should
do something with virtue, like eat their spinach, they click to me. Or else
read Shakespeare.”
I blush, suddenly embarrassed. I do not mean to imply that my work is
of the same calibre as a great poet. I want to correct myself, but I’m too
embarrassed. So instead I shut up, and sit in front of her, blushing.
She regards me. “Yes. Well, that’s a problem. Look, I respect what you
do. You’re obviously very smart.” Her eyes scan her tablet. “The butterfly
thing you wrote was actually pretty interesting.”
“Yes?” I make myself smile again.
“It’s just that no one wants to read these stories.”
I try to protest. “But you hired me to write the important stories. The
stories about politics and the government, to continue the traditions of the
old newspapers. I remember what you said when you hired me.”
“Yeah, well.” She looks away. “I was thinking more about a good
scandal.”
“The checkerspot is a scandal. That butterfly is now gone.”

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 46 Paolo Bacigalupi

She sighs. “No, it’s not a scandal. It’s just a depressing story. No one
reads a depressing story, at least, not more than once. And no one sub-
scribes to a depressing byline feed.”
“A thousand people do.”
“A thousand people.” She laughs. “We aren’t some Laotian community
weblog, we’re Milestone, and we’re competing for clicks with them.” She
waves outside, indicating the maelstrom. “Your stories don’t last longer
than half a day; they never get social-poked by anyone except a fringe.”
She shakes her head. “Christ, I don’t even know who your demographic
is. Centenarian hippies? Some federal bureaucrats? The numbers just don’t
justify the amount of time you spend on stories.”
“What stories do you wish me to write?”
“I don’t know. Anything. Product reviews. News you can use. Just not
any more of this ‘we regret to inform you of bad news’ stuff. If there isn’t
something a reader can do about the damn butterfly, then there’s no point
in telling them about it. It just depresses people, and it depresses your
numbers.”
“We don’t have enough numbers from Marty?”
She laughs at that. “You remind me of my mother. Look, I don’t want
to cut you, but if you can’t start pulling at least a fifty thousand daily
average, I won’t have any choice. Our group median is way down in com-
parison to other teams, and when evaluations come around, we look bad.
I’m up against Nguyen in the Tech and Toys pool, and Penn in Yoga and
Spirituality, and no one wants to read about how the world’s going to shit.
Go find me some stories that people want to read.”
She says a few more things, words that I think are meant to make me
feel inspired and eager, and then I am standing outside the door, once again
facing the maelstrom.
The truth is that I have never written popular stories. I am not a popu-
lar story writer. I am earnest. I am slow. I do not move at the speed these
Americans seem to love. Find a story that people want to read. I can write
some follow-up to Mackley, to Double DP, perhaps assist with sidebars to
his main piece, but somehow, I suspect that the readers will know that I
am faking it.
Marty sees me standing outside of Janice’s office. He comes over.
“She giving you a hard time about your numbers?”
“I do not write the correct sort of stories.”
“Yeah. You’re an idealist.”
We both stand there for a moment, meditating on the nature of idealism.
Even though he is very American, I like him because he is sensitive to peo-
ple’s hearts. People trust him. Even Double DP trusts him, though Marty
blew his name over every news tablet’s front page. Marty has a good heart.
Jai dee. I like him. I think that he is genuine.
“Look, Ong,” he says. “I like what you do.” He puts his hand around
my shoulder. For a moment, I think he’s about to try to rub my head with
affection and I have to force myself not to wince, but he’s sensitive and
instead takes his hand away. “Look, Ong. We both know you’re terrible

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 The Gambler 47

at this kind of work. We’re in the news business, here. And you’re just not
cut out for it.”
“My visa says I have to remain employed.”
“Yeah. Janice is a bitch for that. Look.” He pauses. “I’ve got this thing
with Double DP going down in Mexico. But I’ve got another story brew-
ing. An exclusive. I’ve already got my bonus, anyway. And it should push
up your average.”
“I do not think that I can write Double DP sidebars.”
He grins. “It’s not that. And it’s not charity; you’re actually a perfect
match.”
“Is it about government mismanagement?”
He laughs, but I think he’s not really laughing at me. “No.” He pauses,
smiles. “It’s Kulaap. An interview.”
I suck in my breath. My fellow countryperson, here in America. She
came out during the purge as well. She was doing a movie in Singapore
when the tanks moved, and so she was not trapped. She was already very
popular all over Asia, and when Khamsing turned our country into a black
hole, the world took note. Now she is popular here in America as well.
Very beautiful. And she remembers our country before it went into dark-
ness. My heart is pounding.
Marty goes on. “She’s agreed to do an exclusive with me. But you even
speak her language, so I think she’d agree to switch off.” He pauses, looks
serious. “I’ve got a good history with Kulaap. She doesn’t give interviews
to just anyone. I did a lot of exposure stories about her when Laos was
going to hell. Got her a lot of good press. This is a special favour already,
so don’t fuck it up.”
I shake my head. “No. I will not.” I press my palms together and touch
them to my forehead in a nop of appreciation. “I will not fuck it up.” I
make another nop.
He laughs. “Don’t bother with that polite stuff. Janice will cut off your
balls to increase the stock price, but we’re the guys in the trenches. We
stick together, right?”

In the morning, I make a pot of strong coffee with condensed milk; I boil
rice noodle soup and add bean sprouts and chiles and vinegar, and warm
a loaf of French bread that I buy from a Vietnamese bakery a few blocks
away. With a new mix of Kulaap’s music from DJ Dao streaming in over
my stereo, I sit down at my little kitchen table, pour my coffee from its
press pot, and open my tablet.
The tablet is a wondrous creation. In Laos, the paper was still a paper,
physical, static, and empty of anything except the official news. Real news
in our New Divine Kingdom did not come from newspapers, or from tel-
evision, or from handsets or ear buds. It did not come from the net or feeds
unless you trusted your neighbour not to look over your shoulder at an
Internet cafe and if you knew that there were no secret police sitting beside
you, or an owner who would be able to identify you when they came

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 48 Paolo Bacigalupi

around asking about the person who used that workstation over there to
communicate with the outside world.
Real news came from whispered rumour, rated according to the trust
you accorded the whisperer. Were they family? Did they have long history
with you? Did they have anything to gain by the sharing? My father and
his old classmates trusted one another. He trusted some of his students, as
well. I think this is why the security police came for him in the end. One
of his trusted friends or students also whispered news to official friends.
Perhaps Mr Inthachak, or Som Vang. Perhaps another. It is impossible to
peer into the blackness of that history and guess at who told true stories
and in which direction.
In any case, it was my father’s karma to be taken, so perhaps it does
not matter who did the whispering. But before then – before the news
of my father flowed up to official ears – none of the real news flowed
toward Lao TV or the Vientiane Times. Which meant that when the pro-
tests happened and my father came through the door with blood on his
face from baton blows, we could read as much as we wanted about the
three thousand schoolchildren who had sung the national anthem to our
new divine monarch. While my father lay in bed, delirious with pain, the
papers told us that China had signed a rubber contract that would triple
revenue for Luang Namtha province and that Nam Theun Dam was now
earning BT 22.5 billion per year in electricity fees to Thailand. But there
were no bloody batons, and there were no dead monks, and there was no
Mercedes-Benz burning in the river as it floated towards Cambodia.
Real news came on the wings of rumour, stole into our house at mid-
night, sat with us and sipped coffee and fled before the call of roosters
could break the stillness. It was in the dark, over a burning cigarette that
you learned Vilaphon had disappeared or that Mr Saeng’s wife had been
beaten as a warning. Real news was too valuable to risk in public.
Here in America, my page glows with many news feeds, flickers at me in
video windows, pours in at me over broadband. It is a waterfall of infor-
mation. As my personal news page opens, my feeds arrange themselves,
sorting according to the priorities and tag categories that I’ve set, a mix
of Meung Lao news, Lao refugee blogs, and the chatting of a few close
friends from Thailand and the American college where I attended on a
human relief scholarship.
On my second page and my third, I keep the general news, the arrange-
ments of Milestone, the Bangkok Post, the Phnom Penh Express – the news
chosen by editors. But by the time I’ve finished with my own selections, I
don’t often have time to click through the headlines that these earnest news
editors select for the mythical general reader.
In any case, I know far better than they what I want to read, and with
my keyword and tag scans, I can unearth stories and discussions that a
news agency would never think to provide. Even if I cannot see into the
black hole itself, I can slip along its edges, divine news from its fringe.
I search for tags like Vientiane, Laos, Lao, Khamsing, China-Lao friend-
ship, Korat, Golden Triangle, Hmong independence, Lao PDR, my father’s

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 The Gambler 49

name . . . Only those of us who are Lao exiles from the March Purge really
read these blogs. It is much as when we lived in the capital. The blogs are
the rumours that we used to whisper to one another. Now we publish our
whispers over the net and join mailing lists instead of secret coffee groups,
but it is the same. It is family, as much as any of us now have.
On the maelstrom, the tags for Laos don’t even register. Our tags bloomed
brightly for a little while, while there were still guerrilla students uploading
content from their handsets, and the images were lurid and shocking. But
then the phone lines went down and the country fell into its black hole and
now it is just us, this small network that functions outside the country.
A headline from Jumbo Blog catches my eye. I open the site, and my
tablet fills with the colourful image of the three-wheeled taxi of my child-
hood. I often come here. It is a node of comfort.
Laofriend posts that some people, maybe a whole family, have swum the
Mekong and made it into Thailand. He isn’t sure if they were accepted as
refugees or if they were sent back.
It is not an official news piece. More, the idea of a news piece. SomPaBoy
doesn’t believe it, but Khamchanh contends that the rumour is true, heard
from someone who has a sister married to an Isaan border guard in the Thai
army. So we cling to it. Wonder about it. Guess where these people came from,
wonder if, against all odds, it could be one of ours: a brother, a sister, a cousin, a
father. . .
After an hour, I close the tablet. It’s foolish to read any more. It only
brings up memories. Worrying about the past is foolish. Lao PDR is gone.
To wish otherwise is suffering.

The clerk at Novotel’s front desk is expecting me. A hotel staffer with a
key guides me to a private elevator bank that whisks us up into the smog
and heights. The elevator doors open to a small entryway with a thick
mahogany door. The staffer steps back into the elevator and disappears,
leaving me standing in this strange airlock. Presumably, I am being exam-
ined by Kulaap’s security.
The mahogany door opens, and a smiling black man who is forty centim-
eters taller than I and who has muscles that ripple like snakes smiles and
motions me inside. He guides me through Kulaap’s sanctuary. She keeps
the heat high, almost tropical, and fountains rush everywhere around. The
flat is musical with water. I unbutton my collar in the humidity. I was
expecting air-conditioning, and instead I am sweltering. It’s almost like
home. And then she’s in front of me, and I can hardly speak. She is beau-
tiful, and more. It is intimidating to stand before someone who exists in
film and in music but has never existed before you in the flesh. She’s not as
stunning as she is in the movies, but there’s more life, more presence; the
movies lose that quality about her. I make a nop of greeting, pressing my
hands together, touching my forehead.
She laughs at this, takes my hand and shakes it American-style. “You’re
lucky Marty likes you so much,” she says. “I don’t like interviews.”
I can barely find my voice. “Yes. I only have a few questions.”

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 50 Paolo Bacigalupi

“Oh no. Don’t be shy.” She laughs again, and doesn’t release my hand,
pulls me towards her living room. “Marty told me about you. You need
help with your ratings. He helped me once, too.”
She’s frightening. She is of my people, but she has adapted better to this
place than I have. She seems comfortable here. She walks differently, smiles
differently; she is an American, with perhaps some flavour of our country,
but nothing of our roots. It’s obvious. And strangely disappointing. In her
movies, she holds herself so well, and now she sits down on her couch
and sprawls with her feet kicked out in front of her. Not caring at all. I’m
embarrassed for her, and I’m glad I don’t have my camera set up yet. She
kicks her feet up on the couch. I can’t help but be shocked. She catches my
expression and smiles.
“You’re worse than my parents. Fresh off the boat.”
“I am sorry.”
She shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. I spent half my life here, growing up;
different country, different rules.”
I’m embarrassed. I try not to laugh with the tension I feel. “I just have
some interview questions,” I say.
“Go ahead.” She sits up and arranges herself for the video stand that I
set up.
I begin. “When the March Purge happened, you were in Singapore.”
She nods. “That’s right. We were finishing The Tiger and the Ghost.”
“What was your first thought when it happened? Did you want to go
back? Were you surprised?”
She frowns. “Turn off the camera.”
When it’s off she looks at me with pity. “This isn’t the way to get clicks.
No one cares about an old revolution. Not even my fans.” She stands
abruptly and calls through the green jungle of her flat. “Terrell?”
The big black man appears. Smiling and lethal. Looming over me. He is
very frightening. The movies I grew up with had falang like him. Terrifying
large black men whom our heroes had to overcome. Later, when I arrived
in America, it was different, and I found out that the falang and the black
people don’t like the way we show them in our movies. Much like when I
watch their Vietnam movies, and see the ugly way the Lao freedom fighters
behave. Not real at all, portrayed like animals. But still, I cannot help but
cringe when Terrell looks at me.
Kulaap says, “We’re going out, Terrell. Make sure you tip off some of
the papcams. We’re going to give them a show.”
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“You want clicks, don’t you?”
“Yes, but —”
She smiles. “You don’t need an interview. You need an event.” She looks
me over. “And better clothes.” She nods to her security man. “Terrell, dress
him up.”

A flashbulb frenzy greets us as we come out of the tower. Papcams every-

where. Chase cycles revving, and Terrell and three others of his people

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 The Gambler 51

guiding us through the press to the limousine, shoving cameras aside with
a violence and power that are utterly unlike the careful pity he showed
when he selected a Gucci suit for me to wear.
Kulaap looks properly surprised at the crowd and the shouting report-
ers, but not nearly as surprised as I am, and then we’re in the limo, speed-
ing out of the tower’s roundabout as papcams follow us.
Kulaap crouches before the car’s onboard tablet, keying in pass codes.
She is very pretty, wearing a black dress that brushes her thighs and thin
straps that caress her smooth bare shoulders. I feel as if I am in a movie.
She taps more keys. A screen glows, showing the taillights of our car: the
view from pursuing papcams.
“You know I haven’t dated anyone in three years?” she asks.
“Yes. I know from your website biography.”
She grins. “And now it looks like I’ve found one of my countrymen.”
“But we’re not on a date,” I protest.
“Of course we are.” She smiles again. “I’m going out on a supposedly
secret date with a cute and mysterious Lao boy. And look at all those pap-
cams chasing after us, wondering where we’re going and what we’re going
to do.” She keys in another code, and now we can see live footage of the
paparazzi, as viewed from the tail of her limo. She grins. “My fans like to
see what life is like for me.”
I can almost imagine what the maelstrom looks like right now: there will
still be Marty’s story, but now a dozen other sites will be lighting up, and in
the centre of that, Kulaap’s own view of the excitement, pulling in her fans,
who will want to know, direct from her, what’s going on. She holds up a
mirror, checks herself, and then she smiles into her smartphone’s camera.
“Hi everyone. It looks like my cover’s blown. Just thought I should let
you know that I’m on a lovely date with a lovely man. I’ll let you all know
how it goes. Promise.” She points the camera at me. I stare at it stupidly.
She laughs. “Say hi and good-bye, Ong.”
“Hi and good-bye.”
She laughs again, waves into the camera. “Love you all. Hope you have
as good a night as I’m going to have.” And then she cuts the clip and
punches a code to launch the video to her Web site.
It is a bit of nothing. Not a news story, not a scoop even, and yet, when
she opens another window on her tablet, showing her own miniversion of
the maelstrom, I can see her site lighting up with traffic. Her version of the
maelstrom isn’t as powerful as what we have at Milestone, but still, it is an
impressive window into the data that is relevant to Kulaap’s tags.
“What’s your feed’s byline?” she asks. “Let’s see if we can get your traf-
fic bumped up.”
“Are you serious?”
“Marty Mackley did more than this for me. I told him I’d help.” She
laughs. “Besides, we wouldn’t want you to get sent back to the black hole,
would we?”
“You know about the black hole?” I can’t help doing a double-take.

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 52 Paolo Bacigalupi

Her smile is almost sad. “You think just because I put my feet up on the
furniture that I don’t care about my aunts and uncles back home? That I
don’t worry about what’s happening?”
“I —”
She shakes her head. “You’re so fresh off the boat.”
“Do you use the Jumbo Cafe —” I break off. It seems too unlikely.
She leans close. “My handle is Laofriend. What’s yours?”
“Littlexang. I thought Laofriend was a boy —”
She just laughs.
I lean forward. “Is it true that the family made it out?”
She nods. “For certain. A general in the Thai army is a fan. He tells me
everything. They have a listening post. And sometimes they send scouts
across.”
It’s almost as if I am home.

We go to a tiny Laotian restaurant where everyone recognizes her and falls

over her and the owners simply lock out the paparazzi when they become
too intrusive. We spend the evening unearthing memories of Vientiane. We
discover that we both favored the same rice noodle cart on Kaem Khong.
That she used to sit on the banks of the Mekong and wish that she were
a fisherman. That we went to the same waterfalls outside the city on the
weekends. That it is impossible to find good dum mak hoong anywhere
outside of the country. She is a good companion, very alive. Strange in her
American ways, but still, with a good heart. Periodically, we click photos
of one another and post them to her site, feeding the voyeurs. And then we
are in the limo again and the paparazzi are all around us. I have the strange
feeling of fame. Flashbulbs everywhere. Shouted questions. I feel proud to
be beside this beautiful intelligent woman who knows so much more than
any of us about the situation inside our homeland.
Back in the car, she has me open a bottle of champagne and pour two
glasses while she opens the maelstrom and studies the results of our date.
She has reprogrammed it to watch my byline feed ranking as well.
“You’ve got twenty thousand more readers than you did yesterday,”
she says.
I beam. She keeps reading the results. “Someone already did a scan on
your face.” She toasts me with her glass. “You’re famous.”
We clink glasses. I am flushed with wine and happiness. I will have
Janice’s average clicks. It’s as though a bodhisattva has come down from
heaven to save my job. In my mind, I offer thanks to Marty for arranging
this, for his generous nature. Kulaap leans close to her screen, watching the
flaring content. She opens another window, starts to read. She frowns.
“What the fuck do you write about?”
I draw back, surprised. “Government stories, mostly.” I shrug.
“Sometimes environment stories.”
“Like what?”
“I am working on a story right now about global warming and Henry
David Thoreau.”

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 The Gambler 53

“Aren’t we done with that?”

I’m confused. “Done with what?”
The limo jostles us as it makes a turn, moves down Hollywood Boulevard,
letting the cycles rev around us like schools of fish. They’re snapping pic-
tures at the side of the limo, snapping at us. Through the tinting, they’re
like fireflies, smaller flares than even my stories in the maelstrom.
“I mean, isn’t that an old story?” She sips her champagne. “Even America
is reducing emissions now. Everyone knows it’s a problem.” She taps her
couch’s armrest. “The carbon tax on my limo has tripled, even with the
hybrid engine. Everyone agrees it’s a problem. We’re going to fix it. What’s
there to write about?”
She is an American. Everything that is good about them: their optimism,
their willingness to charge ahead, to make their own future. And every-
thing that is bad about them: their strange ignorance, their unwillingness
to believe that they must behave as other than children.
“No. It’s not done,” I say. “It is worse. Worse every day. And the changes
we make seem to have little effect. Maybe too little, or maybe too late. It
is getting worse.”
She shrugs. “That’s not what I read.”
I try not to show my exasperation. “Of course it’s not what you read.”
I wave at the screen. “Look at the clicks on my feed. People want happy
stories. Want fun stories. Not stories like I write. So instead, we all write
what you will read, which is nothing.”
“Still —”
“No.” I make a chopping motion with my hand. “We newspeople are
very smart monkeys. If you will give us your so lovely eyeballs and your
click-throughs we will do whatever you like. We will write good news, and
news you can use, news you can shop to, news with the ‘Three S’s.’ We will
tell you how to have better sex or eat better or look more beautiful or feel
happier and or how to meditate – yes, so enlightened.” I make a face. “If
you want a walking meditation and Double DP, we will give it to you.”
She starts to laugh.
“Why are you laughing at me?” I snap. “I am not joking!”
She waves a hand. “I know, I know, but what you just said ‘double’ —”
She shakes her head, still laughing. “Never mind.”
I lapse into silence. I want to go on, to tell her of my frustrations. But now
I am embarrassed at my loss of composure. I have no face. I didn’t used to
be like this. I used to control my emotions, but now I am an American, as
childish and unruly as Janice. And Kulaap laughs at me.
I control my anger. “I think I want to go home,” I say. “I don’t wish to
be on a date anymore.”
She smiles and reaches over to touch my shoulder. “Don’t be that
way.”
A part of me is telling me that I am a fool. That I am reckless and fool-
ish for walking away from this opportunity. But there is something else,
something about this frenzied hunt for page views and click-throughs and
ad revenue that suddenly feels unclean. As if my father is with us in the car,

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 54 Paolo Bacigalupi

disapproving. Asking if he posted his complaints about his missing friends

for the sake of clicks.
“I want to get out,” I hear myself say. “I do not wish to have your
clicks.”
“But —”
I look up at her. “I want to get out. Now.”
“Here?” She makes a face of exasperation, then shrugs. “It’s your
choice.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
She tells her driver to pull over. We sit in stiff silence.
“I will send your suit back to you,” I say.
She gives me a sad smile. “It’s all right. It’s a gift.”
This makes me feel worse, even more humiliated for refusing her gen-
erosity, but still, I get out of the limo. Cameras are clicking at me from
all around. This is my fifteen minutes of fame, this moment when all of
Kulaap’s fans focus on me for a few seconds, their flashbulbs popping.
I begin to walk home as paparazzi shout questions.

Fifteen minutes later I am indeed alone. I consider calling a cab, but then
decide I prefer the night. Prefer to walk by myself through this city that
never walks anywhere. On a street corner, I buy a pupusa and gamble on
the Mexican Lottery because I like the tickets’ laser images of their Day of
the Dead. It seems an echo of the Buddha’s urging to remember that we all
become corpses.
I buy three tickets, and one of them is a winner: one hundred dollars
that I can redeem at any TelMex kiosk. I take this as a good sign. Even if
my luck is obviously gone with my work, and even if the girl Kulaap was
not the bodhisattva that I thought, still, I feel lucky. As though my father
is walking with me down this cool Los Angeles street in the middle of the
night, the two of us together again, me with a pupusa and a winning lot-
tery ticket, him with an Ah Daeng cigarette and his quiet gambler’s smile.
In a strange way, I feel that he is blessing me.
And so instead of going home, I go back to the newsroom.
My hits are up when I arrive. Even now, in the middle of the night, a
tiny slice of Kulaap’s fan base is reading about checkerspot butterflies and
American government incompetence. In my country, this story would not
exist. A censor would kill it instantly. Here, it glows green; increasing and
decreasing in size as people click. A lonely thing, flickering amongst the
much larger content flares of Intel processor releases, guides to low-fat
recipes, photos of lol-cats, and episodes of Survivor! Antarctica. The wash
of light and colour is very beautiful.
In the centre of the maelstrom, the green sun of the Double DP story
glows – surges larger. DP is doing something. Maybe he’s surrendering,
maybe he’s murdering his hostages, maybe his fans have thrown up a
human wall to protect him. My story snuffs out as reader attention shifts.
I watch the maelstrom a little longer, then go to my desk and make a
phone call. A rumpled hairy man answers, rubbing at a sleep-puffy face.

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 The Gambler 55

I apologize for the late hour, and then pepper him with questions while I
record the interview.
He is silly looking and wild-eyed. He has spent his life living as if he
were Thoreau, thinking deeply on the forest monk and following the man’s
careful paths through what woods remain, walking amongst birch and
maple and bluets. He is a fool, but an earnest one.
“I can’t find a single one,” he tells me. “Thoreau could find thousands
at this time of year; there were so many he didn’t even have to look for
them.”
He says, “I’m so glad you called. I tried sending out press releases, but
. . .” He shrugs. “I’m glad you’ll cover it. Otherwise, it’s just us hobbyists
talking to each other.”
I smile and nod and take notes of his sincerity, this strange wild creature,
the sort that everyone will dismiss. His image is bad for video; his words
are not good for text. He has no quotes that encapsulate what he sees. It
is all couched in the jargon of naturalists and biology. With time, I could
find another, someone who looks attractive or who can speak well, but all I
have is this one hairy man, disheveled and foolish, senile with passion over
a flower that no longer exists.
I work through the night, polishing the story. When my colleagues pour
through the door at 8 a.m. it is almost done. Before I can even tell Janice
about it, she comes to me. She fingers my clothing and grins. “Nice suit.”
She pulls up a chair and sits beside me. “We all saw you with Kulaap. Your
hits went way up.” She nods at my screen. “Writing up what happened?”
“No. It was a private conversation.”
“But everyone wants to know why you got out of the car. I had someone
from the Financial Times call me about splitting the hits for a tell-all, if
you’ll be interviewed. You wouldn’t even need to write up the piece.”
It’s a tempting thought. Easy hits. Many click-throughs. Ad-revenue
bonuses. Still, I shake my head. “We did not talk about things that are
important for others to hear.”
Janice stares at me as if I am crazy. “You’re not in the position to bar-
gain, Ong. Something happened between the two of you. Something peo-
ple want to know about. And you need the clicks. Just tell us what hap-
pened on your date.”
“I was not on a date. It was an interview.”
“Well then publish the fucking interview and get your average up!”
“No. That is for Kulaap to post, if she wishes. I have something else.”
I show Janice my screen. She leans forwards. Her mouth tightens as she
reads. For once, her anger is cold. Not the explosion of noise and rage
that I expect. “Bluets.” She looks at me. “You need hits and you give them
flowers and Walden Pond.”
“I would like to publish this story.”
“No! Hell, no! This is just another story like your butterfly story, and
your road contracts story, and your congressional budget story. You won’t
get a damn click. It’s pointless. No one will even read it.”
“This is news.”

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 56 Paolo Bacigalupi

“Marty went out on a limb for you —” She presses her lips together,
reining in her anger. “Fine. It’s up to you, Ong. If you want to destroy your
life over Thoreau and flowers, it’s your funeral. We can’t help you if you
won’t help yourself. Bottom line, you need fifty thousand readers or I’m
sending you back to the third world.”
We look at each other. Two gamblers evaluating one another. Deciding
who is betting, and who is bluffing.
I click the “publish” button.
The story launches itself onto the net, announcing itself to the feeds. A
minute later a tiny new sun glows in the maelstrom.
Together, Janice and I watch the green spark as it flickers on the screen.
Readers turn to the story. Start to ping it and share it amongst themselves,
start to register hits on the page. The post grows slightly.
My father gambled on Thoreau. I am my father’s son.

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 Boojum
Elizabeth Bear and Sarah Monette

Elizabeth Bear was born in Hartford, Connecticut, and now

lives in the Mohave Desert near Las Vegas. She won the John
W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer in 2005, and in 2008
took home a Hugo Award for her short story “Tideline,”
which also won her the Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award
(shared with David Moles). Her short work has appeared in
Asimov’s, Subterranean, sci fiction, Interzone, The Third
Alternative, Strange Horizons, On Spec, and elsewhere, and
has been collected in The Chains That You Refuse and New
Amsterdam. She is the author of three highly acclaimed SF
novels, Hammered, Scardown, and Worldwired, and of the
Alternate History Fantasy Promethean Age series, which
includes the novels Blood and Iron, Whiskey and Water, Ink
and Steel, and Hell and Earth. Her other books include the
novels Carnival, Undertow, and Dust. Her most recent book
is the novel All the Windwracked Stars, and coming up are a
new novel, Chill, and a chapbook novella, Seven for a Secret.
Her website is at elizabethbear.com.
Sarah Monette was born and raised in Oak Ridge, Tennessee,
one of the secret cities of the Manhattan Project. Having
completed her Ph.D. in Renaissance English drama, she now
lives and writes in a ninety-nine-year-old house in the Upper
Midwest. Her Doctrine of Labyrinths series consists of the
novels Melusine, The Virtu, and The Mirador. Her short fic-
tion has appeared in many places, including Strange Horizons,
Aeon, Alchemy, and Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, and
has been collected in The Bone Key. Upcoming is a new novel
in the Doctrine of Labyrinths sequence, Corambis. Her web-
site is at sarahmonette.com/.
Bear and Monette have collaborated before, on the story
“The Ile of Dogges” and on the novel A Companion to Wolves.
Here they join forces again to take us adventuring through the
solar system with space pirates. Arrrr!

T he ship had no name of her own, so her human crew called her the
Lavinia Whateley. As far as anyone could tell, she didn’t mind. At

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 58 Elizabeth Bear and Sarah Monette

least, her long grasping vanes curled – affectionately? – when the chief
engineers patted her bulkheads and called her “Vinnie,” and she ceremoni-
ously tracked the footsteps of each crew member with her internal biolu-
minescence, giving them light to walk and work and live by.
The Lavinia Whateley was a Boojum, a deep-space swimmer, but her
kind had evolved in the high tempestuous envelopes of gas giants, and
their offspring still spent their infancies there, in cloud-nurseries over eter-
nal storms. And so she was streamlined, something like a vast spiny lion-
fish to the earth-adapted eye. Her sides were lined with gasbags filled with
hydrogen; her vanes and wings furled tight. Her colour was a blue-green
so dark it seemed a glossy black unless the light struck it; her hide was
impregnated with symbiotic algae.
Where there was light, she could make oxygen. Where there was oxy-
gen, she could make water.
She was an ecosystem unto herself, as the captain was a law unto herself.
And down in the bowels of the engineering section, Black Alice Bradley,
who was only human and no kind of law at all, loved her.
Black Alice had taken the oath back in ’32, after the Venusian Riots. She
hadn’t hidden her reasons, and the captain had looked at her with cold,
dark, amused eyes and said, “So long as you carry your weight, cherie, I
don’t care. Betray me, though, and you will be going back to Venus the
cold way.” But it was probably that – and the fact that Black Alice couldn’t
hit the broad side of a space freighter with a ray gun – that had gotten her
assigned to Engineering, where ethics were less of a problem. It wasn’t,
after all, as if she was going anywhere.
Black Alice was on duty when the Lavinia Whateley spotted prey; she
felt the shiver of anticipation that ran through the decks of the ship. It was
an odd sensation, a tic Vinnie only exhibited in pursuit. And then they
were underway, zooming down the slope of the gravity well toward Sol,
and the screens all around Engineering – which Captain Song kept dark,
most of the time, on the theory that swabs and deckhands and coalshovel-
ers didn’t need to know where they were, or what they were doing – flick-
ered bright and live.
Everybody looked up, and Demijack shouted, “There! There!” He was
right: the blot that might only have been a smudge of oil on the screen
moved as Vinnie banked, revealing itself to be a freighter, big and ungainly
and hopelessly outclassed. Easy prey. Easy pickings.
We could use some of them, thought Black Alice. Contrary to the e-bal-
lads and comm stories, a pirate’s life was not all imported delicacies and
fawning slaves. Especially not when three-quarters of any and all profits
went directly back to the Lavinia Whateley, to keep her healthy and happy.
Nobody ever argued. There were stories about the Marie Curie, too.
The Captain’s voice over fibre-optic cable – strung beside the Lavinia
Whateley’s nerve bundles – was as clear and free of static as if she stood
at Black Alice’s elbow. “Battle stations,” Captain Song said, and the crew
leapt to obey. It had been two Solar since Captain Song keelhauled James

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 Boojum 59

Brady, but nobody who’d been with the ship then was ever likely to forget
his ruptured eyes and frozen scream.
Black Alice manned her station, and stared at the screen. She saw the
freighter’s name – the Josephine Baker – gold on black across the stern,
the Venusian flag for its port of registry wired stiff from a mast on its hull.
It was a steelship, not a Boojum, and they had every advantage. For a
moment she thought the freighter would run.
And then it turned, and brought its guns to bear.
No sense of movement, of acceleration, of disorientation. No pop, no
whump of displaced air. The view on the screens just flickered to a dif-
ferent one, as Vinnie skipped – apported – to a new position just aft and
above the Josephine Baker, crushing the flag mast with her hull.
Black Alice felt that, a grinding shiver. And had just time to grab her
console before the Lavinia Whateley grappled the freighter, long vanes not
curling in affection now.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dogcollar, the closest thing the
Lavinia Whateley had to a chaplain, cross himself, and she heard him mut-
ter, like he always did, Ave, Grandaevissimi, morituri vos salutant. It was
the best he’d be able to do until it was all over, and even then he wouldn’t
have the chance to do much. Captain Song didn’t mind other people wor-
rying about souls, so long as they didn’t do it on her time.
The Captain’s voice was calling orders, assigning people to boarding
parties port and starboard. Down in Engineering, all they had to do was
monitor the Lavinia Whateley’s hull and prepare to repel boarders, assum-
ing the freighter’s crew had the gumption to send any. Vinnie would take
care of the rest – until the time came to persuade her not to eat her prey
before they’d gotten all the valuables off it. That was a ticklish job, only
entrusted to the chief engineers, but Black Alice watched and listened, and
although she didn’t expect she’d ever get the chance, she thought she could
do it herself.
It was a small ambition, and one she never talked about. But it would be
a hell of a thing, wouldn’t it? To be somebody a Boojum would listen to?
She gave her attention to the dull screens in her sectors, and tried not to
crane her neck to catch a glimpse of the ones with the actual fighting on
them. Dogcollar was making the rounds with sidearms from the weapons
locker, just in case. Once the Josephine Baker was subdued, it was the jun-
ior engineers and others who would board her to take inventory.
Sometimes there were crew members left in hiding on captured ships.
Sometimes, unwary pirates got shot.
There was no way to judge the progress of the battle from Engineering.
Wasabi put a stopwatch up on one of the secondary screens, as usual, and
everybody glanced at it periodically. Fifteen minutes ongoing meant the
boarding parties hadn’t hit any nasty surprises. Black Alice had met a man
once who’d been on the Margaret Mead when she grappled a freighter that
turned out to be carrying a division-worth of Marines out to the Jovian
moons. Thirty minutes on-going was normal. Forty-five minutes. Upward
of an hour on-going, and people started double-checking their weapons.

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 60 Elizabeth Bear and Sarah Monette

The longest battle Black Alice had ever personally been part of was six
hours, forty-three minutes, and fifty-two seconds. That had been the last
time the Lavinia Whateley worked with a partner, and the double-cross by
the Henry Ford was the only reason any of Vinnie’s crew needed. Captain
Song still had Captain Edwards’ head in a jar on the bridge, and Vinnie
had an ugly ring of scars where the Henry Ford had bitten her.
This time, the clock stopped at fifty minutes, thirteen seconds. The
Josephine Baker surrendered.

Dogcollar slapped Black Alice’s arm. “With me,” he said, and she didn’t
argue. He had only six weeks seniority over her, but he was as tough as
he was devout, and not stupid either. She checked the velcro on her hol-
ster and followed him up the ladder, reaching through the rungs once to
scratch Vinnie’s bulkhead as she passed. The ship paid her no notice. She
wasn’t the captain, and she wasn’t one of the four chief engineers.
Quartermaster mostly respected crew’s own partner choices, and as
Black Alice and Dogcollar suited up – it wouldn’t be the first time, if the
Josephine Baker’s crew decided to blow her open to space rather than be
taken captive – he came by and issued them both tag guns and x-ray pads,
taking a retina scan in return. All sorts of valuable things got hidden inside
of bulkheads, and once Vinnie was done with the steelship there wouldn’t
be much chance of coming back to look for what they’d missed.
Wet pirates used to scuttle their captures. The Boojums were more
efficient.
Black Alice clipped everything to her belt, and checked Dogcollar’s
seals.
And then they were swinging down lines from the Lavinia Whateley’s
belly to the chewed-open airlock. A lot of crew didn’t like to look at the
ship’s face, but Black Alice loved it. All those teeth, the diamond edges
worn to a glitter, and a few of the ship’s dozens of bright sapphire eyes
blinking back at her.
She waved, unselfconsciously, and flattered herself that the ripple of
closing eyes was Vinnie winking in return.
She followed Dogcollar inside the prize.
They unsealed when they had checked atmosphere – no sense in wasting
your own air when you might need it later – and the first thing she noticed
was the smell.
The Lavinia Whateley had her own smell, ozone and nutmeg, and other
ships never smelled as good, but this was . . . this was . . .
“What did they kill and why didn’t they space it?” Dogcollar wheezed,
and Black Alice swallowed hard against her gag reflex and said, “One will
get you twenty we’re the lucky bastards that find it.”
“No takers,” Dogcollar said.
They worked together to crank open the hatches they came to. Twice
they found crew members, messily dead. Once they found crew members
alive.
“Gillies,” said Black Alice.

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 Boojum 61

“Still don’t explain the smell,” said Dogcollar and, to the gillies: “Look,
you can join our crew, or our ship can eat you. Makes no never mind to
us.”
The gillies blinked their big wet eyes and made fingersigns at each other,
and then nodded. Hard.
Dogcollar slapped a tag on the bulkhead. “Someone will come get you.
You go wandering, we’ll assume you changed your mind.”
The gillies shook their heads, hard, and folded down onto the deck to
wait.
Dogcollar tagged searched holds – green for clean, purple for goods,
red for anything Vinnie might like to eat that couldn’t be fenced for a
profit – and Black Alice mapped. The corridors in the steelship were wind-
ing, twisty, hard to track. She was glad she chalked the walls, because she
didn’t think her map was quite right, somehow, but she couldn’t figure out
where she’d gone wrong. Still, they had a beacon, and Vinnie could always
chew them out if she had to.
Black Alice loved her ship.
She was thinking about that, how, okay, it wasn’t so bad, the pirate
game, and it sure beat working in the sunstone mines on Venus, when she
found a locked cargo hold. “Hey, Dogcollar,” she said to her comm, and
while he was turning to cover her, she pulled her sidearm and blastered
the lock.
The door peeled back, and Black Alice found herself staring at rank
upon rank of silver cylinders, each less than a meter tall and perhaps half a
meter wide, smooth and featureless except for what looked like an assort-
ment of sockets and plugs on the surface of each. The smell was strongest
here.
“Shit,” she said.
Dogcollar, more practical, slapped the first safety orange tag of the expe-
dition beside the door and said only, “Captain’ll want to see this.”
“Yeah,” said Black Alice, cold chills chasing themselves up and down
her spine. “C’mon, let’s move.”
But of course it turned out that she and Dogcollar were on the retrieval
detail, too, and the Captain wasn’t leaving the canisters for Vinnie.
Which, okay, fair. Black Alice didn’t want the Lavinia Whateley eating
those things, either, but why did they have to bring them back?
She said as much to Dogcollar, under her breath, and had a horrifying
thought: “She knows what they are, right?”
“She’s the Captain,” said Dogcollar.
“Yeah, but – I ain’t arguing, man, but if she doesn’t know . . .” She
lowered her voice even farther, so she could barely hear herself: “What if
somebody opens one?”
Dogcollar gave her a pained look. “Nobody’s going to go opening any-
thing. But if you’re really worried, go talk to the Captain about it.”
He was calling her bluff. Black Alice called his right back. “Come with
me?”

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 62 Elizabeth Bear and Sarah Monette

He was stuck. He stared at her, and then he grunted and pulled his gloves
off, the left and then the right. “Fuck,” he said. “I guess we oughta.”

For the crew members who had been in the boarding action, the party
had already started. Dogcollar and Black Alice finally tracked the Captain
down in the rec room, where her marines were slurping stolen wine from
broken-necked bottles. As much of it splashed on the gravity plates epoxied
to the Lavinia Whateley’s flattest interior surface as went into the marines,
but Black Alice imagined there was plenty more where that came from.
And the faster the crew went through it, the less long they’d be drunk.
The Captain herself was naked in a great extruded tub, up to her collar-
bones in steaming water dyed pink and heavily scented by the bath bombs
sizzling here and there. Black Alice stared; she hadn’t seen a tub bath in
seven years. She still dreamed of them sometimes.
“Captain,” she said, because Dogcollar wasn’t going to say anything.
“We think you should know we found some dangerous cargo on the
prize.”
Captain Song raised one eyebrow. “And you imagine I don’t know
already, cherie?”
Oh shit. But Black Alice stood her ground. “We thought we should be
sure.”
The Captain raised one long leg out of the water to shove a pair of neck-
ing pirates off the rim of her tub. They rolled onto the floor, grappling and
clawing, both fighting to be on top. But they didn’t break the kiss.
“You wish to be sure,” said the Captain. Her dark eyes had never left
Black Alice’s sweating face. “Very well. Tell me. And then you will know
that I know, and you can be sure.”
Dogcollar made a grumbling noise deep in his throat, easily interpreted:
I told you so.
Just as she had when she took Captain Song’s oath, and slit her thumb
with a razorblade and dripped her blood on the Lavinia Whateley’s deck-
ing so the ship might know her, Black Alice – metaphorically speaking
– took a breath and jumped. “They’re brains,” she said. “Human brains.
Stolen. Black-market. The Fungi —”
“Mi-Go,” Dogcollar hissed, and the Captain grinned at him, showing
extraordinarily white strong teeth. He ducked, submissively, but didn’t
step back, for which Black Alice felt a completely ridiculous gratitude.
“Mi-Go,” Black Alice said. Mi-Go, Fungi, what did it matter? They
came from the outer rim of the Solar System, the black cold hurtling rocks
of the Öpik-Oort Cloud. Like the Boojums, they could swim between the
stars. “They collect them. There’s a black market. Nobody knows what
they use them for. It’s illegal, of course. But they’re . . . alive in there. They
go mad, supposedly.”
And that was it. That was all Black Alice could manage. She stopped,
and had to remind herself to shut her mouth.
“So I’ve heard,” the Captain said, dabbling at the steaming water. She
stretched luxuriously in her tub. Someone thrust a glass of white wine at

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 Boojum 63

her, condensation dewing the outside. The Captain did not drink from shat-
tered plastic bottles. “The Mi-Go will pay for this cargo, won’t they? They
mine rare minerals all over the system. They’re said to be very wealthy.”
“Yes, Captain,” Dogcollar said, when it became obvious that Black
Alice couldn’t.
“Good,” the Captain said. Under Black Alice’s feet, the decking shud-
dered, a grinding sound as Vinnie began to dine. Her rows of teeth would
make short work of the Josephine Baker’s steel hide. Black Alice could see
two of the gillies – the same two? she never could tell them apart unless
they had scars – flinch and tug at their chains. “Then they might as well
pay us as someone else, wouldn’t you say?”

Black Alice knew she should stop thinking about the canisters. Captain’s
word was law. But she couldn’t help it, like scratching at a scab. They were
down there, in the third subhold, the one even sniffers couldn’t find, cold
and sweating and with that stench that was like a living thing.
And she kept wondering. Were they empty? Or were there brains in
there, people’s brains, going mad?
The idea was driving her crazy, and finally, her fourth off-shift after the
capture of the Josephine Baker, she had to go look.
“This is stupid, Black Alice,” she muttered to herself as she climbed
down the companion way, the beads in her hair clicking against her ear-
rings. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” Vinnie bioluminesced, a traveling spotlight,
placidly unconcerned whether Black Alice was being an idiot or not.
Half-Hand Sally had pulled duty in the main hold. She nodded at
Black Alice and Black Alice nodded back. Black Alice ran errands a lot,
for Engineering and sometimes for other departments, because she didn’t
smoke hash and she didn’t cheat at cards. She was reliable.
Down through the subholds, and she really didn’t want to be doing this,
but she was here and the smell of the third subhold was already making
her sick, and maybe if she just knew one way or the other, she’d be able to
quit thinking about it.
She opened the third subhold, and the stench rushed out.
The canisters were just metal, sealed, seemingly airtight. There shouldn’t
be any way for the aroma of the contents to escape. But it permeated the
air nonetheless, bad enough that Black Alice wished she had brought a
rebreather.
No, that would have been suspicious. So it was really best for everyone
concerned that she hadn’t, but oh, gods and little fishes the stench. Even
breathing through her mouth was no help; she could taste it, like oil from
a fryer, saturating the air, oozing up her sinuses, coating the interior spaces
of her body.
As silently as possible, she stepped across the threshold and into the
space beyond. The Lavinia Whateley obligingly lit the space as she entered,
dazzling her at first as the overhead lights – not just bioluminescent, here,
but LEDs chosen to approximate natural daylight, for when they shipped

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 64 Elizabeth Bear and Sarah Monette

plants and animals – reflected off rank upon rank of canisters. When Black
Alice went among them, they did not reach her waist.
She was just going to walk through, she told herself. Hesitantly, she
touched the closest cylinder. The air in this hold was so dry there was no
condensation – the whole ship ran to lip-cracking, nosebleed dryness in
the long weeks between prizes – but the cylinder was cold. It felt somehow
grimy to the touch, gritty and oily like machine grease. She pulled her hand
back.
It wouldn’t do to open the closest one to the door – and she realized with
that thought that she was planning on opening one. There must be a way
to do it, a concealed catch or a code pad. She was an engineer, after all.
She stopped three ranks in, lightheaded with the smell, to examine the
problem.
It was remarkably simple, once you looked for it. There were three
depressions on either side of the rim, a little smaller than human fingertips
but spaced appropriately. She laid the pads of her fingers over them and
pressed hard, making the flesh deform into the catches.
The lid sprang up with a pressurized hiss. Black Alice was grateful
that even open, it couldn’t smell much worse. She leaned forward to peer
within. There was a clear membrane over the surface, and gelatin or thick
fluid underneath. Vinnie’s lights illuminated it well.
It was not empty. And as the light struck the greyish surface of the
lump of tissue floating within, Black Alice would have sworn she saw the
pathetic unbodied thing flinch.
She scrambled to close the canister again, nearly pinching her fingertips
when it clanked shut. “Sorry,” she whispered, although dear sweet Jesus,
surely the thing couldn’t hear her. “Sorry, sorry.” And then she turned and
ran, catching her hip a bruising blow against the doorway, slapping the
controls to make it fucking close already. And then she staggered sideways,
lurching to her knees, and vomited until blackness was spinning in front of
her eyes and she couldn’t smell or taste anything but bile.
Vinnie would absorb the former contents of Black Alice’s stomach, just
as she absorbed, filtered, recycled, and excreted all her crew’s wastes.
Shaking, Black Alice braced herself back upright and began the long climb
out of the holds.
In the first subhold, she had to stop, her shoulder against the smooth,
velvet slickness of Vinnie’s skin, her mouth hanging open while her lungs
worked. And she knew Vinnie wasn’t going to hear her, because she wasn’t
the Captain or a chief engineer or anyone important, but she had to try
anyway, croaking, “Vinnie, water, please.”
And no one could have been more surprised than Black Alice Bradley
when Vinnie extruded a basin and a thin cool trickle of water began to
flow into it.

Well, now she knew. And there was still nothing she could do about it. She
wasn’t the Captain, and if she said anything more than she already had,
people were going to start looking at her funny. Mutiny kind of funny. And

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 Boojum 65

what Black Alice did not need was any more of Captain Song’s attention
and especially not for rumours like that. She kept her head down and did
her job and didn’t discuss her nightmares with anyone.
And she had nightmares, all right. Hot and cold running, enough, she
fancied, that she could have filled up the Captain’s huge tub with them.
She could live with that. But over the next double dozen of shifts, she
became aware of something else wrong, and this was worse, because it was
something wrong with the Lavinia Whateley.
The first sign was the chief engineers frowning and going into huddles at
odd moments. And then Black Alice began to feel it herself, the way Vinnie
was . . . she didn’t have a word for it because she’d never felt anything like
it before. She would have said balky, but that couldn’t be right. It couldn’t.
But she was more and more sure that Vinnie was less responsive somehow,
that when she obeyed the Captain’s orders, it was with a delay. If she were
human, Vinnie would have been dragging her feet.
You couldn’t keelhaul a ship for not obeying fast enough.
And then, because she was paying attention so hard she was making
her own head hurt, Black Alice noticed something else. Captain Song had
them cruising the gas giants’ orbits – Jupiter, Saturn, Neptune – not going
in as far as the asteroid belt, not going out as far as Uranus. Nobody Black
Alice talked to knew why, exactly, but she and Dogcollar figured it was
because the Captain wanted to talk to the Mi-Go without actually getting
near the nasty cold rock of their planet. And what Black Alice noticed was
that Vinnie was less balky, less unhappy, when she was headed out, and
more and more resistant the closer they got to the asteroid belt.
Vinnie, she remembered, had been born over Uranus.
“Do you want to go home, Vinnie?” Black Alice asked her one late-night
shift when there was nobody around to care that she was talking to the
ship. “Is that what’s wrong?”
She put her hand flat on the wall, and although she was probably imag-
ining it, she thought she felt a shiver ripple across Vinnie’s vast side.
Black Alice knew how little she knew, and didn’t even contemplate shar-
ing her theory with the chief engineers. They probably knew exactly what
was wrong and exactly what to do to keep the Lavinia Whateley from
going core meltdown like the Marie Curie had. That was a whispered
story, not the sort of thing anybody talked about except in their hammocks
after lights out.
The Marie Curie had eaten her own crew.
So when Wasabi said, four shifts later, “Black Alice, I’ve got a job for
you,” Black Alice said, “Yessir,” and hoped it would be something that
would help the Lavinia Whateley be happy again.
It was a suit job, he said, replace and repair. Black Alice was going
because she was reliable and smart and stayed quiet, and it was time she
took on more responsibilities. The way he said it made her first fret because
that meant the Captain might be reminded of her existence, and then fret
because she realized the Captain already had been.

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 66 Elizabeth Bear and Sarah Monette

But she took the equipment he issued, and she listened to the instruc-
tions and read schematics and committed them both to memory and her
implants. It was a ticklish job, a neural override repair. She’d done some
fibre-optic bundle splicing, but this was going to be a doozy. And she was
going to have to do it in stiff, pressurized gloves.
Her heart hammered as she sealed her helmet, and not because she was
worried about the EVA. This was a chance. An opportunity. A step closer
to chief engineer.
Maybe she had impressed the Captain with her discretion, after all.
She cycled the airlock, snapped her safety harness, and stepped out onto
the Lavinia Whateley’s hide.
That deep blue-green, like azurite, like the teeming seas of Venus under
their swampy eternal clouds, was invisible. They were too far from Sol – it
was a yellow stylus-dot, and you had to know where to look for it. Vinnie’s
hide was just black under Black Alice’s suit floods. As the airlock cycled
shut, though, the Boojum’s own bioluminescence shimmered up her vanes
and along the ridges of her sides – crimson and electric green and acid blue.
Vinnie must have noticed Black Alice picking her way carefully up her
spine with barbed boots. They wouldn’t hurt Vinnie – nothing short of a
space rock could manage that – but they certainly stuck in there good.
The thing Black Alice was supposed to repair was at the principal nexus
of Vinnie’s central nervous system. The ship didn’t have anything like what
a human or a gilly would consider a brain; there were nodules spread all
through her vast body. Too slow, otherwise. And Black Alice had heard
Boojums weren’t supposed to be all that smart – trainable, sure, maybe
like an Earth monkey.
Which is what made it creepy as hell that, as she picked her way up
Vinnie’s flank – though up was a courtesy, under these circumstances –
talking to her all the way, she would have sworn Vinnie was talking back.
Not just tracking her with the lights, as she would always do, but bending
some of her barbels and vanes around as if craning her neck to get a look
at Black Alice.
Black Alice carefully circumnavigated an eye – she didn’t think her boots
would hurt it, but it seemed discourteous to stomp across somebody’s field
of vision – and wondered, only half-idly, if she had been sent out on this
task not because she was being considered for promotion, but because she
was expendable.
She was just rolling her eyes and dismissing that as borrowing trouble
when she came over a bump on Vinnie’s back, spotted her goal – and all
the ship’s lights went out.
She tongued on the comm. “Wasabi?”
“I got you, Blackie. You just keep doing what you’re doing.”
“Yessir.”
But it seemed like her feet stayed stuck in Vinnie’s hide a little longer
than was good. At least fifteen seconds before she managed a couple of
deep breaths – too deep for her limited oxygen supply, so she went briefly
dizzy – and continued up Vinnie’s side.

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 Boojum 67

Black Alice had no idea what inflammation looked like in a Boojum,

but she would guess this was it. All around the interface she was meant
to repair, Vinnie’s flesh looked scraped and puffy. Black Alice walked ten-
derly, wincing, muttering apologies under her breath. And with every step,
the tendrils coiled a little closer.
Black Alice crouched beside the box, and began examining connections.
The console was about three meters by four, half a meter tall, and fixed
firmly to Vinnie’s hide. It looked like the thing was still functional, but
something – a bit of space debris, maybe – had dented it pretty good.
Cautiously, Black Alice dropped a hand on it. She found the access
panel, and flipped it open: more red lights than green. A tongue-click, and
she began withdrawing her tethered tools from their holding pouches and
arranging them so that they would float conveniently around.
She didn’t hear a thing, of course, but the hide under her boots vibrated
suddenly, sharply. She jerked her head around, just in time to see one of
Vinnie’s feelers slap her own side, five or ten meters away. And then the
whole Boojum shuddered, contracting, curved into a hard crescent of pain
the same way she had when the Henry Ford had taken that chunk out of
her hide. And the lights in the access panel lit up all at once – red, red,
yellow, red.
Black Alice tongued off the send function on her headset microphone, so
Wasabi wouldn’t hear her. She touched the bruised hull, and she touched
the dented edge of the console. “Vinnie,” she said, “does this hurt?”
Not that Vinnie could answer her. But it was obvious. She was in pain.
And maybe that dent didn’t have anything to do with space debris. Maybe
– Black Alice straightened, looked around, and couldn’t convince her-
self that it was an accident that this box was planted right where Vinnie
couldn’t . . . quite . . . reach it.
“So what does it do?” she muttered. “Why am I out here repairing some-
thing that fucking hurts?” She crouched down again and took another
long look at the interface.
As an engineer, Black Alice was mostly self-taught; her implants were
second-hand, black market, scavenged, the wet work done by a gilly
on Providence Station. She’d learned the technical vocabulary from
Gogglehead Kim before he bought it in a stupid little fight with a ship
named the V. I. Ulyanov, but what she relied on were her instincts, the
things she knew without being able to say. So she looked at that box wired
into Vinnie’s spine and all its red and yellow lights, and then she tongued
the comm back on and said, “Wasabi, this thing don’t look so good.”
“Whaddya mean, don’t look so good?” Wasabi sounded distracted, and
that was just fine.
Black Alice made a noise, the auditory equivalent of a shrug. “I think the
node’s inflamed. Can we pull it and lock it in somewhere else?”
“No!” said Wasabi.
“It’s looking pretty ugly out here.”

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 68 Elizabeth Bear and Sarah Monette

“Look, Blackie, unless you want us to all go sailing out into the Big
Empty, we are not pulling that governor. Just fix the fucking thing, would
you?”
“Yessir,” said Black Alice, thinking hard. The first thing was that Wasabi
knew what was going on – knew what the box did and knew that the
Lavinia Whateley didn’t like it. That wasn’t comforting. The second thing
was that whatever was going on, it involved the Big Empty, the cold vast-
ness between the stars. So it wasn’t that Vinnie wanted to go home. She
wanted to go out.
It made sense, from what Black Alice knew about Boojums. Their infants
lived in the tumult of the gas giants’ atmosphere, but as they aged, they
pushed higher and higher, until they reached the edge of the envelope. And
then – following instinct or maybe the calls of their fellows, nobody knew
for sure – they learned to skip, throwing themselves out into the vacuum
like Earth birds leaving the nest. And what if, for a Boojum, the solar sys-
tem was just another nest?
Black Alice knew the Lavinia Whateley was old, for a Boojum. Captain
Song was not her first captain, although you never mentioned Captain
Smith if you knew what was good for you. So if there was another stage
to her life cycle, she might be ready for it. And her crew wasn’t letting her
go.
Jesus and the cold fishy gods, Black Alice thought. Is this why the Marie
Curie ate her crew? Because they wouldn’t let her go?
She fumbled for her tools, tugging the cords to float them closer, and
wound up walloping herself in the bicep with a splicer. And as she was
wrestling with it, her headset spoke again. “Blackie, can you hurry it up
out there? Captain says we’re going to have company.”
Company? She never got to say it. Because when she looked up, she saw
the shapes, faintly limned in starlight, and a chill as cold as a suit leak crept
up her neck.
There were dozens of them. Hundreds. They made her skin crawl and
her nerves judder the way gillies and Boojums never had. They were man-
sized, roughly, but they looked like the pseudoroaches of Venus, the ones
Black Alice still had nightmares about, with too many legs, and horrible
stiff wings. They had ovate, corrugated heads, but no faces, and where
their mouths ought to be sprouting writing tentacles
And some of them carried silver shining cylinders, like the canisters in
Vinnie’s subhold.
Black Alice wasn’t certain if they saw her, crouched on the Boojum’s hide
with only a thin laminate between her and the breathsucker, but she was
certain of something else. If they did, they did not care.
They disappeared below the curve of the ship, toward the airlock Black
Alice had exited before clawing her way along the ship’s side. They could
be a trade delegation, come to bargain for the salvaged cargo.
Black Alice didn’t think even the Mi-Go came in the battalions to talk
trade.

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 Boojum 69

She meant to wait until the last of them had passed, but they just kept
coming. Wasabi wasn’t answering her hails; she was on her own and
unarmed. She fumbled with her tools, stowing things in any handy pocket
whether it was where the tool went or not. She couldn’t see much; every-
thing was misty. It took her several seconds to realize that her visor was
fogged because she was crying.
Patch cables. Where were the fucking patch cables? She found a two-
meter length of fibre-optic with the right plugs on the end. One end went
into the monitor panel. The other snapped into her suit comm.
“Vinnie?” she whispered, when she thought she had a connection.
“Vinnie, can you hear me?”
The bioluminescence under Black Alice’s boots pulsed once.
Gods and little fishes, she thought. And then she drew out her laser cut-
ting torch, and started slicing open the case on the console that Wasabi had
called the governor. Wasabi was probably dead by now, or dying. Wasabi,
and Dogcollar, and . . . well, not dead. If they were lucky, they were dead.
Because the opposite of lucky was those canisters the Mi-Go were
carrying.
She hoped Dogcollar was lucky.
“You wanna go out, right?” she whispered to the Lavinia Whateley.
“Out into the Big Empty.”
She’d never been sure how much Vinnie understood of what people said,
but the light pulsed again.
“And this thing won’t let you.” It wasn’t a question. She had it open
now, and she could see that was what it did. Ugly fucking thing. Vinnie
shivered underneath her, and there was a sudden pulse of noise in her hel-
met speakers: screaming. People screaming.
“I know,” Black Alice said. “They’ll come get me in a minute, I guess.”
She swallowed hard against the sudden lurch of her stomach. “I’m gonna
get this thing off you, though. And when they go, you can go, okay? And
I’m sorry. I didn’t know we were keeping you from . . .” She had to quit
talking, or she really was going to puke. Grimly, she fumbled for the tools
she needed to disentangle the abomination from Vinnie’s nervous system.
Another pulse of sound, a voice, not a person: flat and buzzing and hor-
rible. “We do not bargain with thieves.” And the scream that time – she’d
never heard Captain Song scream before. Black Alice flinched and started
counting to slow her breathing. Puking in a suit was the number one bad-
ness, but hyperventilating in a suit was a really close second.
Her heads-up display was low-res, and slightly miscalibrated, so that
everything had a faint shadow-double. But the thing that flashed up against
her own view of her hands was unmistakable: a question mark.

<?>

“Vinnie?”
Another pulse of screaming, and the question mark again.

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 70 Elizabeth Bear and Sarah Monette

<?>

“Holy shit, Vinnie! . . . Never mind, never mind. They, um, they collect
people’s brains. In canisters. Like the canisters in the third subhold.”
The bioluminescence pulsed once. Black Alice kept working.
Her heads-up pinged again: <ALICE> A pause. <?>
“Um, yeah. I figure that’s what they’ll do with me, too. It looked like
they had plenty of canisters to go around.”
Vinnie pulsed, and there was a longer pause while Black Alice doggedly
severed connections and loosened bolts.
<WANT> said the Lavinia Whateley. <?>
“Want? Do I want . . . ?” Her laughter sounded bad. “Um, no. No, I
don’t want to be a brain in a jar. But I’m not seeing a lot of choices here.
Even if I went cometary, they could catch me. And it kind of sounds like
they’re mad enough to do it, too.”
She’d cleared out all the moorings around the edge of the governor; the
case lifted off with a shove and went sailing into the dark. Black Alice
winced. But then the processor under the cover drifted away from Vinnie’s
hide, and there was just the monofilament tethers and the fat cluster of
fibre-optic and superconductors to go.

<HELP>

“I’m doing my best here, Vinnie,” Black Alice said through her teeth.
That got her a fast double-pulse, and the Lavinia Whateley said,
<HELP>
And then, <ALICE>
“You want to help me?” Black Alice squeaked.
A strong pulse, and the heads-up said, <HELP ALICE>
“That’s really sweet of you, but I’m honestly not sure there’s anything
you can do. I mean, it doesn’t look like the Mi-Go are mad at you, and I
really want to keep it that way.”
<EAT ALICE> said the Lavinia Whateley.
Black Alice came within a millimeter of taking her own fingers off with
the cutting laser. “Um, Vinnie, that’s um . . . well, I guess it’s better than
being a brain in a jar.” Or suffocating to death in her suit if she went come-
tary and the Mi-Go didn’t come after her.
The double-pulse again, but Black Alice didn’t see what she could
have missed. As communications went, EAT ALICE was pretty fucking
unambiguous.
<HELP ALICE> the Lavinia Whateley insisted. Black Alice leaned in
close, unsplicing the last of the governor’s circuits from the Boojum’s nerv-
ous system. <SAVE ALICE>
“By eating me? Look, I know what happens to things you eat,
and it’s not . . .” She bit her tongue. Because she did know what hap-
pened to things the Lavinia Whateley ate. Absorbed. Filtered. Recycled.
“Vinnie . . . are you saying you can save me from the Mi-Go?”

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 Boojum 71

A pulse of agreement.
“By eating me?” Black Alice pursued, needing to be sure she
understood.
Another pulse of agreement.
Black Alice thought about the Lavinia Whateley’s teeth. “How much me
are we talking about here?”
<ALICE> said the Lavinia Whateley, and then the last fibre-optic cable
parted, and Black Alice, her hands shaking, detached her patch cable and
flung the whole mess of it as hard as she could straight up. Maybe it would
find a planet with atmosphere and be some little alien kid’s shooting star.
And now she had to decide what to do.
She figured she had two choices, really. One, walk back down the
Lavinia Whateley and find out if the Mi-Go believed in surrender. Two,
walk around the Lavinia Whateley and into her toothy mouth.
Black Alice didn’t think the Mi-Go believed in surrender.
She tilted her head back for one last clear look at the shining black infin-
ity of space. Really, there wasn’t any choice at all. Because even if she’d
misunderstood what Vinnie seemed to be trying to tell her, the worst she’d
end up was dead, and that was light-years better than what the Mi-Go had
on offer.
Black Alice Bradley loved her ship.
She turned to her left and started walking, and the Lavinia Whateley’s
bioluminescence followed her courteously all the way, vanes swaying out
of her path. Black Alice skirted each of Vinnie’s eyes as she came to them,
and each of them blinked at her. And then she reached Vinnie’s mouth and
that magnificent panoply of teeth.
“Make it quick, Vinnie, okay?” said Black Alice, and walked into her
leviathan’s maw.

Picking her way delicately between razor-sharp teeth, Black Alice had
plenty of time to consider the ridiculousness of worrying about a hole in
her suit. Vinnie’s mouth was more like a crystal cave, once you were inside
it; there was no tongue, no palate. Just polished, macerating stones. Which
did not close on Black Alice, to her surprise. If anything, she got the feeling
the Vinnie was holding her . . . breath. Or what passed for it.
The Boojum was lit inside, as well – or was making herself lit, for Black
Alice’s benefit. And as Black Alice clambered inward, the teeth got smaller,
and fewer, and the tunnel narrowed. Her throat, Alice thought. I’m inside
her.
And the walls closed down, and she was swallowed.
Like a pill, enclosed in the tight sarcophagus of her space suit, she felt
rippling pressure as peristalsis pushed her along. And then greater pres-
sure, suffocating, savage. One sharp pain. The pop of her ribs as her lungs
crushed.
Screaming inside a space suit was contra-indicated, too. And with col-
lapsed lungs, she couldn’t even do it properly.

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 72 Elizabeth Bear and Sarah Monette

alice.
She floated. In warm darkness. A womb, a bath. She was comfortable.
An itchy soreness between her shoulder blades felt like a very mild radia-
tion burn.
alice.
A voice she thought she should know. She tried to speak; her mouth
gnashed, her teeth ground.
alice. talk here.
She tried again. Not with her mouth, this time.
Talk . . . here?
The buoyant warmth flickered past her. She was . . . drifting. No, swim-
ming. She could feel currents on her skin. Her vision was confused. She
blinked and blinked, and things were shattered.
There was nothing to see anyway, but stars.
alice talk here.
Where am I?
eat alice.
Vinnie. Vinnie’s voice, but not in the flatness of the heads-up display
anymore. Vinnie’s voice alive with emotion and nuance and the vastness
of her self.
You ate me, she said, and understood abruptly that the numbness she felt
was not shock. It was the boundaries of her body erased and redrawn.
!
Agreement. Relief.
I’m . . . in you, Vinnie?
=/=
Not a “no”. More like, this thing is not the same, does not compare, to
this other thing. Black Alice felt the warmth of space so near a generous
star slipping by her. She felt the swift currents of its gravity, and the grav-
ity of its satellites, and bent them; and tasted them, and surfed them faster
and faster away.
I am you.
!
Ecstatic comprehension, which Black Alice echoed with passionate relief.
Not dead. Not dead after all. Just, transformed. Accepted. Embraced by
her ship, whom she embraced in return.
Vinnie. Where are we going?
out, Vinnie answered. And in her, Black Alice read the whole great
naked wonder of space, approaching faster and faster as Vinnie acceler-
ated, reaching for the first great skip that would hurl them into the inter-
stellar darkness of the Big Empty. They were going somewhere.
Out, Black Alice agreed and told herself not to grieve. Not to go mad.
This sure beat swampy Hell out of being a brain in a jar.
And it occurred to her, as Vinnie jumped, the brainless bodies of her
crew already digesting inside her, that it wouldn’t be long before the loss of
the Lavinia Whateley was a tale told to frighten spacers, too.

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