YEAR'S BEST SF 5.

DAVID G. HARTWELL.

Acknowledgments.

I would like to acknowledge the valuable a.s.sistance of Caitlin Blasdell, Jennifer Brehl, and Diana Gill in the creation of this year's volume, all of whom performed with faultless grace under difficult circ.u.mstances.

Introduction.

Nineteen hundred and ninety-nine is one of the legendary years of the science fiction future, and we have lived through it. When I was a boy reading SF, 1999 was the setting of stories such as C. M. Kornbluth's "The Rocket of 99"; when I was older, it was the setting of a TV show, s.p.a.ce 1999. And now it is gone, and all the SF written about the 80s and 90s is just fiction-now robbed of most of its significant prophetic power-and must stand or fall as fiction, on the merits of its execution and/or on its historical importance. It is a sobering thought to consider that fifty years ago 1999 looked like the relatively distant future, a time of wonders and radical difference. Fifty years is not so long, less than the career of Jack Williamson for instance, who published in 1929 and this year too, in the course of seven decades of writing SF. I leave you with the thought that we should set our SF stories further ahead in time, lest we become outdated fantasy too soon.

This was the year that people started talking seriously about instant books, printed on demand in bookstores or in publishers' warehouses and delivered in hours or days to readers, and of electronic books to be read on hand-held readers or on computers. Both of these media became everyday reality, though not yet widespread and popular, in 1999. And the business sections of major newspapers predicted a coming revolution in wireless telecommunications, with the advent of hand-held devices capable of making phone calls, connecting to the internet, sending and receiving e-mail, and indeed reading electronic books. It gives me pause to think that some of you may well be reading these words on such a device...because I have devoted my life to books on paper-comfortable, beautiful objects, sometimes usable and disposable, sometimes treasures to keep. Remember that something published electronically can vanish much more quickly and thoroughly than when printed on paper. If it's a keeper, you want a book...at least until the revolution after this one.

Science fiction in 1999 had a particularly good year, the best year for commercial success in more than a decade in book form. There were SF books on the bestseller lists in the U. S. often in 1999. Short fiction continued strong, but without one focal original anthology. The best original SF anthology of the year was probably editor Robert Silverberg's New Horizons (but the contracts prevent the authors from reselling stories in that book to this one, so no stories are represented here). However, Moon Shots, a paperback original edited by Peter Crowther, was very strong, the best paperback original anthology of the year. There were several other respectable original anthologies in '99 (No Woman Born, edited by Constance Ash, was nominated for the Philip K. d.i.c.k Award as best paperback original of the year) and the usual bunch of weak ones-a sad state of affairs below the top ranks.

Asimov's SF had a particularly good year, as did Fantasy & Science Fiction, in its 50th Anniversary year. Interzone had an exceptional year, nearly as strong as Asimov's or F&SF's, perhapsbecause of the growth of so much strong U.K. talent in SF over the last decade. Amazing returned impressively in 1999, SF Age continued, as did a.n.a.log, and each of them published a number of distinguished stories. Century returned to produce one issue late in the year. Australia produced another issue of Eidolon, as well as new issues of several other magazines in time for the World SF convention in Melbourne in September, and Canada produced more issues of On Spec and a transformed Transversions.

I repeat, for readers new to this series, my usual disclaimer: this selection of science fiction stories represents the best that was published during the year 1999. I could perhaps have filled two or three more volumes this size and then claimed to have nearly all of the best-though not all the best novellas. I believe that representing the best, while it is not physically possible to encompa.s.s it all in one even very large book, also implies presenting some substantial variety of excellences, and I left some writers out in order to include others in this limited s.p.a.ce.

My general principle for selection: this book is full of science fiction-every story in the book is clearly that and not something else. I personally have a high regard for horror, fantasy, speculative fiction, slipstream, and postmodern literature. But here, I chose science fiction. It is the intention of this year's best series to focus on science fiction, and to provide readers who are looking especially for science fiction an annual home base.

Which is not to say that I choose one kind of science fiction-I try to represent the varieties of tones and voices and att.i.tudes that keep the genre vigorous and responsive to the changing realities out of which it emerges, in science and daily life. This is a book about what's going on now in SF.

And now let us move on to the stories.

-David G. Hartwell Pleasantville, NY

Everywhere

GEOFF RYMAN.

Geoff Ryman is a Canadian-born writer who moved to the USA at age 11, and has been living in England since 1973. He began publishing occasional SF stories in the mid-1970s, and has also written some SF plays, including a powerful adaptation of Philip K. d.i.c.k's The Transmigration of Timothy Archer (1982). The first work to establish his international reputation as one of the leading writers of SF was "The Unconquered Country: A Life History" (1984, rev 1986), which won the World Fantasy Award. It is reprinted in his only collection to date, Unconquered Countries: Four Novellas (1994). Ryman's first novel was The Warrior who Carried Life (1985), a fantasy. His second, The Child Garden (1988), won the Arthur C. Clarke Award and the John W. Campbell Memorial Award, and confirmed him as a major figure in contemporary SF. His most recent books are not SF. Was (1992) is the supposed true story of the real-life Dorothy who was the inspiration for L. Frank Baum's first Oz book, and of a contemporary man dying of AIDS. 253 (1998) is a work of hypertext fiction linking the lives of characters in a subway car. It won the Philip K. d.i.c.k Award in 1999.

This story, from Interzone, is uncharacteristically short for Ryman (most of his stories are novellas) and utopian (most of his works are dystopian, or at least seriously grim). As we enter a new century and a new millennium, leading the Year's Best with a utopian vision seems appropriate.

Here's to a brighter future!

When we knew Granddad was going to die, we took him to see the Angel of the North.

When he got there, he said: It's all different. There were none of these oaks all around it then, he said.

Look at the size of them! The last time I saw this, he says to me, I was no older than you are now, and itwas brand new, and we couldn't make out if we liked it or not.

We took him, the whole lot of us, on the tram from Blaydon. We made a day of it. All of Dad's exes and their exes and some of their kids and me Aunties and their exes and their kids. It wasn't that happy a group to tell you the truth. But Granddad loved seeing us all in one place.

He was going a bit soft by then. He couldn't tell what the time was any more and his words came out wrong. The Mums made us sit on his lap. He kept calling me by my Dad's name. His breath smelt funny but I didn't mind, not too much. He told me about how things used to be in Blaydon.

They used to have a gang in the Dene called Pedro's Gang. They drank something called Woodp.e.c.k.e.r and broke people's windows and they left empty tins of pop in the woods. If you were little you weren't allowed out cos everyone's Mum was so fearful and all. Granddad once saw twelve young lads go over and hit an old woman and take her things. One night his brother got drunk and put his first through a window, and he went to the hospital, and he had to wait hours before they saw him and that was terrible.

I thought it sounded exciting meself. But I didn't say so because Granddad wanted me to know how much better things are now.

He says to me, like: the trouble was, Landlubber, we were just kids, but we all thought the future would be terrible. We all thought the world was going to burn up, and that everyone would get poorer and poorer, and the crime worse.

He told me that lots of people had no work. I don't really understand how anyone could have nothing to do. But then I've never got me head around what money used to be either.

Or why they built that Angel. It's not even that big, and it was old and covered in rust. It didn't look like an Angel to me at all, the wings were so big and square. Granddad said, no, it looks like an airplane, that's what airplanes looked like back then. It's meant to go rusty, it's the Industrial Spirit of the North.

I didn't know what he was on about. I asked Dad why the Angel was so important and he kept explaining it had a soul, but couldn't say how. The church choir showed up and started singing hymns.

Then it started to rain. It was a wonderful day out.

I went back into the tram and asked me watch about the Angel.

This is my watch, here, see? It's dead good isn't it, it's got all sorts on it. It takes photographs and all.

Here, look, this is the picture it took of Granddad by the Angel. It's the last picture I got of him. You can talk to people on it. And it keeps thinking of fun things for you to do.

Why not explain to the interviewer why the Angel of the North is important?

Duh. Usually they're fun.

Take the train to Newcastle and walk along the river until you see on the hill where people keep their homing pigeons. Muck out the cages for readies.

It's useful when you're a bit short, it comes up with ideas to make some dosh.

It's really clever. It takes all the stuff that goes on around here and stirs it around and comes up with something new. Here, listen: The laws of evolution have been applied to fun. New generations of ideas are generated and eliminated at such a speed that evolution works in real time. It's survival of the funnest and you decide They evolve machines too. Have you seen our new little airplanes? They've run the designs through thousands of generations, and they got better and faster and smarter.

The vicar bought the whole church choir airplanes they can wear. The wings are really good, they look just like bird's wings with pinions sticking out like this. Oh! I really want one of them. You can turn somersaults in them. People build them in their sheds for spare readies, I could get one now if I had the dosh.

Every Sunday as long as it isn't raining, you can see the church choir take off in formation. Little old ladies in leotards and blue jeans and these big embroidered Mexican hats. They rev up and take off and start to sing the Muslim call to prayer. They echo all over the show. Then they cut their engines and spiral up on the updraft. That's when they start up on Nearer My G.o.d to Thee.

Every Sunday, Granddad and I used to walk up Shibbon Road to the Dene. It's so high up there that we could look down on top of them. He never got over it. Once he laughed so hard he fell down, andjust lay there on the gra.s.s. We just lay on our backs and looked up at the choir, they just kept going up like they were kites.

When the Travellers come to Blaydon, they join in. Their wagons are pulled by horses and have calliopes built into the front, so on Sundays, when the choir goes up, the calliopes start up, so you got organ music all over the show as well. Me Dad calls Blaydon a sound sandwich. He says it's all the hills.

The Travellers like our acoustics, so they come here a lot. They got all sorts to trade. They got these bacteria that eat rubbish, and they hatch new machines, like smart door keys that only work for the right people. They make their own beer, but you got to be a bit careful how much you drink.

Granddad and I used to take some sarnies and our sleeping bags and kip with them. The Travellers go everywhere, so they sit around the fire and tell about all sorts going on, not just in England but France and Italia. One girl, her Mum let her go with them for a whole summer. She went to Prague and saw all these Buddhist monks from Thailand. They were Travellers and all.

Granddad used to tell the Travellers his stories too. When he was young he went to Mexico. India.

The lot. You could in them days. He even went to Egypt, my Granddad. He used to tell the Travellers the same stories, over and over, but they never seemed to noticed. Like, when he was in Egypt he tried to rent this boat to take him onto the Delta, and he couldn't figure why it was so expensive, and when he got on it, he found he'd rented a car ferry all to himself by mistake. He had the whole thing to himself. The noise of the engines scared off the birds which was the only reason he'd wanted the boat.

So, Granddad was something of a Traveller himself. He went everywhere.

There's all sorts to do around Blaydon. We got dolphins in the munic.i.p.al swimming pool.

We dug it ourselves, in the Haughs just down there by the river. It's tidal, our river. Did you know? It had dolphins anyway, but our pool lured them in. They like the people and the facilities, like the video conferencing. They like video conferencing, do dolphins. They like being fed and all.

My Dad and I help make the food. We grind up fish heads on a Sat.u.r.day at Safeways. It smells rotten to me, but then I'm not an aquatic mammal, am I? That's how we earned the readies to buy me my watch. You get everyone along grinding fish heads, everybody takes turns. Then you get to go to the swimming.

Sick people get first crack at swimming with the dolphins. When Granddad was sick, he'd take me with him. There'd be all this steam coming off the water like in a vampire movie. The dolphins always knew who wasn't right, what was wrong with them. Mrs Grathby had trouble with her joints, they always used to be gentle with her, just nudge her along with their noses like. But Granddad, there was one he called Liam. Liam always used to jump up and land real hard right next to him, splash him all over and Granddad would push him away, laughing like, you know? He loved Liam. They were pals.

Have a major water-fight on all floors of the Grand Hotel in Newcastle.

Hear that? It just keeps doing that until something takes your fancy.

Hire Dad the giant bunny rabbit costume again and make him wear it.

We did that once before. It was dead fun. I think it knows Dad's a bit down since Granddad.

Call your friend Heidi and ask her to swap clothes with you and pretend to be each other for a day.

Aw Jeez! Me sister's been wearing me watch again! It's not fair! It mucks it up, it's supposed to know what I like, not her and that flipping Heidi. And she's got her own computer, it's loads better than mine, it looks like a shirt and has earphones, so no one else can hear it. It's not fair! People just come clod-hopping through. You don't get to keep nothing.

Look this is all I had to do to get this watch!

Grind fishfood on 3.11, 16.11, 20.12 and every Sunday until 3.3 Clean pavements three Sundays Deliver four sweaters for Step Mum Help Dad with joinery for telecoms outstation Wire up Mrs Grathby for video immersion Attend school from April 10th to 31 July inclusive I did even more than that. At least I got some over. I'm saving up for a pair of cars.

Me and me mates love using the cars. I borrow me Dad's pair. You wear them like shoes and they'resmart. It's great fun on a Sunday. We all go whizzin down Lucy Street together, which is this great big hill, but the shoes won't let you go too fast or crash into anything. We all meet up, whizz around in the mall in great big serpent. You can pre-program all the cars together, so you all break up and then all at once come back together, to make shapes and all.

Granddad loved those cars. He hated his stick, so he'd go shooting off in my Dad's pair, ducking and weaving, and shouting back to me, Come on, Landlubber, keep up! I was a bit scared in them days, but he kept up at me til I joined in. He'd get into those long lines, and we shoot off the end of them, both of us. He'd hold me up.

He helped me make me lantern and all. Have you seen our lanterns, all along the mall? They look good when the phosphors go on at night. All the faces on them are real people, you know. You know the ink on them's made of these tiny chips with legs? Dad's seen them through a microscope, he says they look like synchronized swimmers.

I got one with my face on it. I was bit younger then so I have this really naff crew cut. Granddad helped me make it. It tells jokes. I'm not very good at making jokes up, but Granddad had this old joke book. At least I made the effort.

Let's see, what else. There's loads around here. We got the sandbox in front of the old mall.

Everybody has a go at that, making things. When King William died all his fans in wheelchairs patted together a picture of him in sand. Then it rained. But it was a good picture.

Our sandbox is a bit different. It's got mostly real sand. There's only one corner of it computer dust.

It's all right for kids and that or people who don't want to do things themselves. I mean when we were little we had the dust make this great big 3D sign Happy Birthday Granddad Piper. He thought it was wonderful because if you were his age and grew up with PCs and that, it must be wonderful, just to think of something and have it made.

I don't like pictures, they're too easy. Me, I like to get stuck in. If I go to the sandbox to make something, I want to come back with sand under me fingernails. Me Dad's the same. When Newcastle won the cup, me and me mates made this big Newcastle crest out of real sand. Then we had a sandfight.

It took me a week to get the sand out of me hair. I got loads of mates now, but I didn't used to.

Granddad was me mate for a while. I guess I was his pet project. I always was a bit quiet, and a little bit left out, and also I got into a bit of trouble from time to time. He got me out of myself.

You know I was telling you about the Angel? When I went back into that tram I sat and listened to the rain on the roof. It was dead quiet and there was n.o.body around, so I could be meself. So I asked me watch. OK then. What is this Angel? And it told me the story of how the Angel of the North got a soul.

There was this prisoner in Hull jail for thieving cos he run out of readies cos he never did nothing. It was all his fault really, he says so himself. He drank and cheated his friends and all that and did nothing with all his education.

He just sat alone in his cell. First off, he was angry at the police for catching him, and then he was angry with himself for getting caught and doing it and all of that. Sounds lovely, doesn't he? Depressing isn't the word.

Then he got this idea, to give the Angel a soul.

It goes like this. There are 11 dimensions, but we only see three of them and time, and the others are what was left over after the Big Bang. They're too small to see but they're everywhere at the same time, and we live in them too, but we don't know it. There's no time there, so once something happens, it's like a photograph, you can't change it.

So what the prisoner of Hull said that means is that everything we do gets laid down in the other dimensions like train tracks. It's like a story, and it doesn't end until we die, and that does the job for us.

That's our soul, that story.

So what the Prisoner in Hull does, is work in the prison, get some readies and pay to have a client put inside the Angel's head.

And all the other computers that keep track of everyone's jobs or the questions they asked, or just what they're doing, that all gets uploaded to the Angel.Blaydon's there. It's got all of us, grinding fish heads. Every time someone makes tea or gets married from Carlisle to Ulverton from Newcastle to Derby, that gets run through the Angel. And that Angel is laying down the story of the North.

My watch told me that, sitting in that tram.

Then everyone else starts coming back in, but not Dad and Granddad, so I go out to fetch them.

The clouds were all pulled down in shreds. It looked like the cotton candy Dad makes at fetes. The sky was full of the church choir in their little airplanes. For just a second, it looked like a Mother Angel, with all her little ones.

I found Dad standing alone with Granddad. I thought it was rain on my Dad's face, but it wasn't. He was looking at Granddad, all bent and twisted, facing into the wind.

We got to go Dad, I said.

And he said, In a minute son. Granddad was looking up at the planes and smiling.

And I said it's raining Dad. But they weren't going to come in. So I looked at the Angel and all this rust running off it in red streaks onto the concrete. So I asked, if it's an Angel of the North, then why is it facing south?

And Granddad says, Because it's holding out its arms in welcome.

He didn't want to go.

We got him back into the tram, and back home, and he started to wheeze a bit, so me Step Mum put him to bed and about eight o clock she goes in to swab his teeth with vanilla, and she comes out and says to Dad, I think he's stopped breathing.

So I go in, and I can see, no he's still breathing. I can hear it. And his tongue flicks, like he's trying to say something. But Dad comes in, and they all start to cry and carry on. And the neighbours all come in, yah, yah, yah, and I keep saying, it's not true, look, he's still breathing. What do they have to come into it for, it's not their Granddad, is it?

No one was paying any attention to the likes of me, were they? So I just take off. There's this old bridge you're not allowed on. It's got trees growing out of it. The floor's gone, and you have to walk along the top of the barricades. You fall off, you go straight into the river, but it's a good dodge into Newcastle.