Year's Best Scifi 8 Part 8

Some of the girls Cheena knew had many sailors as husbands. It was no great risk; any given s.h.i.+p only came to port once or twice a year, and each sailor could believe the carefully crafted fiction that Zeeor Dayl or whoever it was was alone, was waiting patient and hopeful for him and only him. If the unlikely happens, and two s.h.i.+ps with two different sailor-husbands come in to port at the same time-well, with luck and connivance and hastily fabricated excuses, the two husbands would never meet.

Cheena, however, believed in being faithful, and for her there was only one man: Daryn, a navigator.

She might earn a few florins by drinking beer with another sailor, and leading him on, if a s.h.i.+p was in port, and Dari was not on it. What of it? That was, after all, what the barmaids were paid for; drinks could just as easily be served by automata. But her heart could belong to only one man, and would only be satisfied if that one man loved only her. And Daryn had loved her. Or so he had once proclaimed, before they had fought.

Daryn.

Daryn Bey was short and dark, stocky enough that one might take him for a dockworker instead of a navigator. His skin was the rich black of a deep-s.p.a.ce sailor, a color enhanced with biochemical dye to counter ultraviolet irradiation. Against the skin, luminescent white tattoos filigreed across every visible centimeter of his body. When he had finally wooed her and won her and taken her to where they could examine each other in private, she found the rest of him had been tattooed as well, most deliciously tattooed. He was a living artwork, and she could study each tiny centimeter of him for hours.

And Daryn sailed with Hesperia.

The wormholes were the port's very reason for existing, the center of Cheena's universe. In view of their importance. it was odd, perhaps, that Cheena almost never went to look at them. In her bleak, destructive mood, she closed the bar and headed upspiral. Patryos, owner of the Subtle Tiger, would be angry at her, because in the hours after news of a wreck, when n.o.body had yet heard real information and everybody had heard rumors, people would naturally come to the bar; business would be good. Let him come and serve drinks himself, she thought; she needed some solitude. The thought of putting on a show of cheerfulness and pa.s.sing around gossip along with liquor made her feel slightly sick.

Still, sailors-even navigators-sometimes changed s.h.i.+ps. Daryn might not have been on Hesperia.

It might not be certain that the s.h.i.+p had been Hesperia; it could be debris from an ancient wreck, just now was.h.i.+ng through the strange time tides of the wormhole. Or it could even be wreckage from far in the future, perhaps some other s.h.i.+p to be named Hesperia, one not yet even built. The rigid laws of relativity mean that a wormhole pierces not s.p.a.ce alone, but also time. Half of the job of a navigator, Daryn had explained to her once-and the most important half at that-came in making sure that the s.h.i.+p sailed to the right when as well as to the right where. Sailing a Cauchy loop would rip the s.h.i.+p apart; it was the navigator's calculation to make sure the s.h.i.+p never entered its own past, unless it was safely light-years away. The s.h.i.+p could skim, but never cross, its own Cauchy horizon.

Cheena made her way upspiral, until at last she came to the main viewing lounge. It featured a huge circular window, five meters across, a window that looked out on the emptiness, and on the wormhole.

She entered, and then instantly pulled back: the usually empty lounge was throbbing with spectators. Of course it would be, she thought; they are watching a disaster.

She couldn't stay there, but as she stood indecisive, there drifted into her mind like a piece of floating debris the thought that once Daryn had taken her to another viewing area, not exactly a lounge, but a maintenance hanger with a viewport. It was out of the public areas, of course, but Cheena had been at the station since she had been born, and knew that if she always moved briskly, as if she belonged, and arrived at a door just after an authorized person had opened it, n.o.body would question her. And after a few minutes, she found her maintenance hanger empty.

There was no gravity here, and she floated in front of it, trying to blank away her thoughts.

The port station orbited slowly around the wormhole named Dorado , largest of the three wormholes in the nexus. They floated in interstellar s.p.a.ce, far from any star, but light was redundant here: there was nothing here to see.

The Dorado wormhole, a thousand kilometers across, could only be seen after the eyes had adapted to the star field, and realized that the stars seen through the wormhole were different from the stars drifting slowly in the background. After her eyes adapted, she could see a dozen tiny sparkles of lightorbiting the wormhole, automated beacons to guide stars.h.i.+ps to correct transit trajectories through the hole. And now she could see s.h.i.+ps, tiny one-man maintenance dories, no larger than a coffin with metal arms, drifting purposefully through s.p.a.ce, collecting debris.

Cheena deliberately made her mind blank. She didn't want to think about debris, and what that might mean. She stared at the wormhole, telling herself that it was a hole in s.p.a.ce ten thousand light-years long, that through the wormhole she was seeing stars nearly on the other side of the galaxy, impossibly distant and yet just a tiny skip away.

Cheena had never been to any of them. She had been born on the station, and would die on the station. Sailors lived for the star pa.s.sage, loved the disruption of s.p.a.ce as they fell through the topological incongruence of the wormholes. The thought filled Cheena with dread. She had never wanted to be anywhere else.

She had explained this to Daryn once. He loved her, couldn't he stay home, with her, make a home on the port? He had laughed, a gentle laugh, a good-hearted laugh that she loved to hear, but still a laugh.

"No, my beautiful one. The stars get into your blood, don't you know? If I stay in port too long, the stars call to me, and if I do not find a s.h.i.+p then, I will go mad." He kissed her gently. "But you know that I will always come back to you."

She nodded, contented but not contented, for she had always known that this was all she could hope for.

Hesperia, she thought. He sailed out on Hesperia. She knew that she would never again hear that s.h.i.+p's name spoken, for there was a superst.i.tion among the sailors, and the port crew, never to say the name of a wrecked s.h.i.+p aloud. From now on it would be "the s.h.i.+p," or "that s.h.i.+p, you know the one,"

and everybody would know.

She floated, staring without seeing, for what must have been hours. The tiny dories were returning now, the robotic arms of each cluttered with debris, and tangled in with the debris, they were bringing in the first of the dead.

The port crew had their legends. Some of them might even have been true. Once, according to a story, a s.h.i.+p of ancient design had come unexpectedly to Pskov station. Pskov was a station circling Viadei wormhole, two jumps away from the port. Cheena had never been there, had never left the port, but the rumors circulated through all of the network. Even before the s.h.i.+p had docked, the portkeepers located the records: the s.h.i.+p was Tsander. Tsander had entered Viadei three hundred and seventy years ago, during a ma.s.sive solar flare, one of the largest flares ever recorded, and was lost.

Tsander tumbled out of the wormhole mouth with all sensors blind from flare damage, and the tug crew of Pskov station had found it, caught it, stabilized it, and towed it to the docks.

At liberty in the port, the crew of the Tsander spoke in strange accents that were barely understandable. It was a miracle that the s.h.i.+p had emerged at all; all its navigation systems-of an unreliable design long since obsolete-were burned out. Tsander's crew had marveled at the size and sophistication of the entertainments of Pskov port, had been incredulous to hear of the extent of the wormhole network. They offered as payment archaic coins of an ancient nation that was now nearly forgotten, coins that had worth only for their value as curiosities.

After a week of repair the crew took their s.h.i.+p Tsander back into the wormhole Viadei, vowing that they would return to their own time with a story that would earn drinks for them forever.

No one at the station told them that the ancient logs held comprehensive records of every wormhole pa.s.sage, and the logs, meticulously kept despite revolutions and disasters and famine, had no record of Tsander ever reemerging in the past.

Perhaps they had known. They were sailors, the crew of Tsander: for all that they wore quaint costumes and spoke in archaic accents, they were sailors.

Back at the maintenance dock, Cheena watched, waiting and dreading. She should never have let him go, should have held him tight, instead of pus.h.i.+ng him away. The crowd was larger than it had beenbefore, and Cheena was pushed up against a man wearing only a feather cloak over a fur loincloth.

"Sorry," she said, and as she said it, she realized that it was the bar-boy from the down-spin dance hall, the one who had first come to the Subtle Tiger and told her that there had been a wreck. On an impulse, she touched his arm. "Name's Cheena," she told him.

He looked back at her, perhaps startled that she had spoken. "Tayo," he said. "You're the mid-s.h.i.+ft girl from Subtle Tiger. I seen you around." He was breathing shallowly and his eyes trembled, perhaps blinking back tears.

"You had somebody on that s.h.i.+p, the one we talked about?" she asked.

"I dunno." He trembled. "I-I hope not. A navigator."

Suddenly, irrationally, Cheena was certain that his sailor was Daryn too, that Daryn had had two lovers in the port. But then he continued, "He s.h.i.+pped out on Singapore," and she knew it wasn't Daryn after all.

A spray of relief washed over Cheena, although she knew it had been silly for her to have thought Daryn had two lovers in port. When would he have had time?

"-but you know how sailors are. He said he'd be back to me on the next s.h.i.+p this direction, and, and if Hes-if that s.h.i.+p was coming inbound...."

She put her arm around Tayo. "He's okay. He wouldn't be on that s.h.i.+p, I'm sure of it."

Tayo chewed his lip, but he seemed more cheerful. "Are you sure?"

Cheena nodded sagely, although she knew no such thing. "Positive."

When a s.h.i.+p comes to disaster at a wormhole, the wreckage sprays through both time and s.p.a.ce.

Cheena didn't even know when Hesperia had wrecked, possibly years or even centuries in the future.

She held on to that thought.

And another s.h.i.+p came in, not through the Dorado worm- hole, but via Camino Estrella, the smallest of the three wormholes, one that led toward an old, rich cl.u.s.ter of worlds in the Orion arm. It would stay at the port for three days, letting its crew relax, and then depart through Dorado for the other side of the galaxy.

And there was nothing for it but to prepare for the arrival of the sailors. With a s.h.i.+p coming into port, Patryos could not spare her, and there was no place at the port for a person without a job. But when her s.h.i.+ft ended, she drifted over to the maintenance port, wordlessly waiting for them to post names of the bodies.

Nothing.

Tayo, the boy from the downside bar, dropped in at the beginning of her next s.h.i.+ft and updated her with the latest gossip from the maintenance investigation. They had finished gathering the pieces, he told her, and had gathered enough to date the wreck. It was very nearly contemporal, he told her, and her heart suddenly chilled.

"Past or future?" she said.

"Two hundred hours pastward of standard," he told her. "They said."

Eight days. She did a quick calculation in her head. Right now, through the Dorado wormhole mouth, the port stood fifty-two days pastward of Viadei mouth, and Viadei was forty days in the future of Standard. So...if the mouths had not drifted farther apart, and if Hesperia had taken the straightforward loop, and not some strange path through-the wreckage came from six days into their future.

Everybody at the port would be doing the same calculations, she knew. "How about your sailor?"

Cheena asked, but from the radiance of Tayo's face, she already knew the answer.

"He went out via Dorado."

And so he was almost certainly safe, she thought, unless he took a very long pa.s.sage pastward.

Dorado opened fiftytwo days futureward. Not quite impossible, if he took a long-enough loop, but unlikely enough that Tayo could consider his lover safe. Cheena had no such consolation; she knew that Dari had crewed the doomed s.h.i.+p.

Tayo looked up. "Thought you might want to know the latest," he said. "Sorry, but I gotta get to the hall. Sailors will be arriving in maybe an hour, and the boss wants me on the floor." She nodded. "Give 'em h.e.l.l," she said.

Tayo looked at her. "You going to be okay?"

"Sure." She smiled. "I'm fine."

Cheena went back to cleaning the bar, went back to hating herself. She had kicked Daryn out, called him a two-timing b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and worse; told him that he didn't love her. Daryn had protested, tried to soothe her, but the one thing he didn't say was that what she had heard was wrong.

It was another sailor who told her, a sailor she didn't know, who had remarked that he wished he was as lucky with women as Daryn. "Who?" she had asked, although in her heart she knew. "Daryn Bey," the sailor had said. "Lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.d has a wife in every port!"

"Excuse me," she had told him, "I'll be back in a moment." She had put on a modest dress and gone upspin, gone into a bar near officer's quarters that she knew he would never frequent. "I'm looking for Daryn Bey," she told a man at the bar. "I've got a message sent from his wife in Pskovport. Anybody know him?"

"A message from Karina?" one of the officers at the bar asked. "She only saw him two days ago, why would she have a message?"

"That Daryn," one of the officers said, shaking his head. "I wonder how he keeps them all straight?"

She had been in no mind to listen. She went back and threw his clothes out of her apartment, scattered his books and papers and simulation disks down the corridor with a savage glee. Then she bolted the door and refused to listen to his pounding or shouted apologies. Later, she heard, he had s.h.i.+pped out on the Hesperia, and she had felt glad that he was gone.

She was still cleaning bar when the owner Patryos came in. "You going to be okay?" he asked.

It was the same thing Tayo had asked. Cheena nodded, without saying anything.

"I heard that the names are being listed," Patryos said, "up in maintenance."

She turned her head a little toward him, enough to show she was listening.

"You want to go up? I expect the first hour after the sailors start coming in will still be pretty calm."

He shrugged. "I can spare you for a little, if you want to go up."

She didn't look up, just shook her head.

"Go!" he told her, and she looked up at him in surprise. "Anybody can see you haven't been worth anything, and you won't be worth anything until you know for certain. One way or the other."

He lowered his voice, and said, more calmly, "One way or the other, it's better to know. Take it from me. Go."

Cheena nodded, dropped her rag on the bar, and left.

She knew where to go in the maintenance quarter, although she had never had any reason to go there. Everybody knew. Behind the door was a desk, and behind the desk a door. Sitting at the desk was a single maintenance man. She came up to him, and said quietly, "Daryn Bey."

His eyes flickered. "Relations.h.i.+p?"

"I'm his downspin wife." It was a marriage that was only recognized within the boundaries of the port, but a fully legal one. The maintenance man looked away for a moment, and then said, "I'm sorry."

He paused for a moment, and then asked, "Would you like to see him?"

She nodded, and the maintenance man gestured toward the door behind him.

The room was cold. Death is cold, she thought. She was alone, and wondered what to do. A second maintenance man appeared through another door, and gestured to her to follow. This close to spin axis, gravity was light, and he moved in an eerie, slow-motion bounce. She almost floated behind him, her feet nearly useless. She wasn't used to low gravity.

He stopped at a pilot's chair. No, Daryn wasn't a pilot, she thought, this is the wrong man, and then she saw him.

The maintenance man withdrew, and she stared into Daryn's face.

Vacuum hematoma had been hard on him, and he looked like he had been beaten by a band of thugs. His eyes were closed. The tattoos still glowed, faintly, and that was the worst thing of all, that his tattoos still were alive, and Daryn wasn't. She reached out and put her fingertips against his cheek with a feather's touch, stroking along his jawline with a single finger. Suddenly, irrationally, she was angry at him. She wanted to tell him how inconsiderate he was, how selfish and idiotic and, and, and-but he was not listening. He was never going to listen.

The anger helped her to keep from crying.

By the time she returned to the Subtle Tiger, knots of sailors were walking upspin and downspin the corridors, talking and sometimes singing, dropping into a bar for a moment to see if it felt like a place to spend the rest of the s.h.i.+ft, and then moving on, or staying for a drink. She pa.s.sed a ferret crew going upspin toward the docks. The ferrets, slender and lithe as snakes with legs, squirmed in their cages, nearly insane with excitement over the prospect of being set free on the just-docked s.h.i.+p to hunt for stowaway rats.

She took over the bar from Patryos, serving drinks in a daze, unable to think of any quick responses to the double entendres and light-hearted suggestions offered by the sailors. Most of them knew that she had a sailor husband, though, and didn't press her very hard, and of course they wouldn't know that he had been in the wreck.

In fact, none of them would even know about the wreck yet; unless they had transferred across through an uptime wormhole, it was still in their future, and the port workers would be careful not to say anything that would cause a catastrophe. An incipient contradiction due to a loop in history would close the wormhole. A little information can leak from the future into the past, but history must be consistent. If enough information leaks downtime to threaten an inconsistency, the offending wormhole connection can snap.

The port circled the wormhole cl.u.s.ter, light-years from any star. If their pa.s.sage to the rest of civilization by the wormhole connection failed, it would be a thousand years of slower-than-light travel to reach the fringes of civilization. So the port crew did not need to be reminded to avoid incipient contradiction; it was as natural to them as manufacturing oxygen.

Slowly, the banter and the routine of serving elevated Cheena's mood. One of the sailors asked to buy her a drink, and she accepted it and drank philosophically. It was hard to stay gloomy when liquor and florins were flowing so freely. She had kicked him out, after all; he was nothing to her. She could replace him any night from any of a dozen eager suitors-maybe even this one, if he was as nice as he seemed.

And the bar was suddenly especially hectic, with a dozen sailors asking for drinks at once, and half of them asking for more than that, and two more singing a rather clever duet she hadn't heard before, a song about a navigator who kept a pet mouse in the front of his pants, with the heavyset sailor singing the mouse's part in a squeaky falsetto. She was busy smiling and serving and taking orders, so it wasn't surprising at all that she didn't see him come in. He was quiet, after all, and took a seat at the bar and waited for her to come to him.

Daryn.

She was so surprised that she started to drop the beer she was holding, and caught it with a jerk, spilling a great splash of it across the bar and half across two sailors. The one she'd caught full-on jumped up, staring down at his splattered uniform. The one sitting with him started to laugh. "Now you've had your baptism in beer, and the night is still young, say now," he said. After a moment the one who had been splashed started to laugh as well. "A good sign, then, wouldn't you say?"

"Sorry, there," she said, bringing them both fresh drinks, waving her hand when they started to pay.