Nancy Kress - Nebula Awards Showcase 2003

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For Charles Sheffield, loved and remembered always
Contents
INTRODUCTION: Entering the Field
Nancy Kress
THE 2001 NEBULA AWARDS BALLOT
THE CURE FOR EVERYTHING
Severna Park
THE ULTIMATE EARTH
Jack Williamson
BETTY BALLANTINE APPRECIATION
Shelly Shapiro
LOUISE’S GHOST
Kelly Link
UNDONE
James Patrick Kelly
RHYSLING WINNERS
THE ELEPHANTS ON NEPTUNE
Mike Resnick
COMMENTARY: JOYS AND JEREMIADS
Geoffrey A. Landis • Scott Edelman • Terry Bisson
Andy Duncan • Mindy L. Klasky • Ellen Datlow
Harry Turtledove • Michael Cassutt
THE QUANTUM ROSE
Catherine Asaro
PAST NEBULA AWARD WINNERS
INTRODUCTION: ENTERING THE FIELD
You always remember your first Nebula Awards banquet. Mine was Friday, May 3, 1985, at the
Warwick Hotel in New York City. Young and starry-eyed, I was thrilled to be introduced to Donald
Kingsbury and Harlan Ellison. At the banquet I sat next to A. J. Budrys and talked about advertising.
William Gibson won Best Novel forNeuromancer . I lost Best Novella to John Varley for “PRESS
ENTER.” He was gracious, I was gracious, and everyone went around saying, “It’s an honor just to be
nominated.”
The Nebula banquet held April 27, 2002, at the Westin Crown Center hotel in Kansas City both was
and was not different. I knew nearly everyone, and they all looked older. The awards format was by now
completely familiar (“. . . and the nominees are . . .”). As in 1985, some of the works I wanted to win did
so, some didn’t. And everyone still went around saying, “It’s an honor just to be nominated.”
Oddly enough for a genre supposedly looking toward the future, SF generates a lot of nostalgia. People
reminisce endlessly about the great editors, writers, and stories of yesteryear, with “yesteryear”
sometimes defined as half a decade ago. Comparisons are made, trends dissected, time lines created. In
one sense, all of speculative fiction is one huge time machine, in which past, present, and future are not
distinctly separate entities but rather coexisting ones, like rooms in the same house.
That seems especially true of this year’s Nebula ballot, in three ways. First, the nominees range from new
writers like Kelly Link and William Shunn, who have yet to publish their first novels, to veteran Jack
Williamson. At ninety-four, Jack is a time machine all by himself, able to entertainingly tell you about SF
in 1929 or in 1999.
Second, nearly all of the fiction nominated for the 2001 Nebula was not published in 2001. The reason is
the esoteric nominating rules. The effect is to create an impression of temporal fluidity, as if January 2000
sat side-by-side with December 2001, separated by no more than the second it takes to turn a single
page.
Third, the stories themselves bend time. Severna Park’s winner, “The Cure for Everything,” is rooted
firmly in present-day biotech explorations—with terrifying implications for the future. Lucius Shepard’s
“Radiant Green Star” and James Morrow’s “ Auspicious Eggs” take place in the future but comment
witheringly on messes we’ve made in the past. Andy Duncan’s “The Pottawatomie Giant” sets its events
in the past—two pasts, take your choice—in the hope of shaping a more benevolent present. Jim Kelly
cavalierly disregards any temporal barriers whatsoever as he careens around time in “Undone.” Connie
Willis’s novelPassages goes one step further, discarding time altogether in the world the brain creates for
itself during—and maybe after—that major event, death.
Among science fiction writers, a common question is, “When did you first enter the field?” Usually the
answer is a simple number (“1968” or “two years ago”), but I think this question, like so much else in SF,
is about more than the usual interpretation of time. The question also carries implications about the writing
itself.
Look at that phrase “enter the field.” All sorts of SF devices use fields, including, of course, time
machines. A field can be defined as “a space in which there are electromagnetic oscillations due to a
radiator.” In one sense, we all enter the field every time we read a good SF story. It radiates, and our
minds oscillate in response. In fact, more than our minds oscillate: eyes may widen, breath shorten,
muscles tighten. (If symptoms become extreme, consult your physician.) The stronger the story, the
greater the field strength.
Not everyone, however, oscillates to the same kind of speculative fiction story. Some like hard SF, some
dark fantasy, some satire, some social extrapolation. This has been known to cause astonishment (“You
voted forthat ?”) or even hard feelings (“That story does not belong on a Nebula ballot at all”). But, in
the long run, I think this diversity is a strength. Hard SF, social-extrapolation SF, space adventure, high
fantasy, dark fantasy, urban fantasy, magic realism, satire, whimsy, alternate history, cyberpunk,
apocalyptic SF . . . we are a rich field, or fields, ranging across category as well as across time, all
radiating like mad. The Nebula stories in this volume, and the many nominees I did not have space to
include, demonstrate that. You may not resonate with all of them. But I’m sure you will find among them
at least some whose fields you enter with pleasure.
Go and oscillate.
—Nancy Kress
THE 2001 NEBULA AWARDS BALLOT
The Nebula Awards are chosen by the members of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America.
On April 26, 2002, they were given in five categories: short story: under 7,500 words; novelette: 7,500
to 17,499 words; novella: 17,500 to 39,999 words; novel: more than 40,000 words; and script for a
dramatic presentation. SFWA members read and nominate the best SF stories and novels throughout the
year, and the editor of the “ Nebula Awards Report” collects these nominations and publishes them in a
newsletter. At the end of the year, there is a preliminary ballot and then a final one to determine the
winners. The awards are then presented at a formal banquet.
The Nebula Awards originated in 1965, from an idea by Lloyd Biggle Jr., then secretary-treasurer of
SFWA. The award itself was originally designed by Judith Ann Blish from a sketch by Kate Wilhelm.
The official description reads, “a block of Lucite four to five inches square by eight to nine inches high
into which a spiral nebula of metallic glitter and a geological specimen are embedded.” Each award is
different, and all are treasured.
BEST NOVEL
(winner)The Quantum Rose , Catherine Asaro (Tor)
Eternity’s End, Jeffrey A. Carver (Tor)
Mars Crossing, Geoffrey A. Landis (Tor)
A Storm of Swords, George R. R. Martin (Bantam Spectra)
The Collapsium, Wil McCarthy (Del Rey)
The Tower at Stony Wood, Patricia A. McKillip (Ace)
Passage, Connie Willis (Bantam)
BEST NOVELLA
“A Roll of the Dice,” Catherine Asaro (Analog)
“May Be Some Time,” Brenda Clough (Analog)
“The Diamond Pit,” Jack Dann (Fantasy & Science Fiction)
“Radiant Green Star,” Lucius Shepard (Asimov’s)
(winner) “The Ultimate Earth,” Jack Williamson (Analog)
BEST NOVELETTE
“To Kiss the Star,” Amy Sterling Casil (Fantasy & Science Fiction)
“The Pottawatomie Giant,” Andy Duncan (SCIFI.COM)
“Undone,” James Patrick Kelly (Asimov’s)
(winner) “Louise’s Ghost,” Kelly Link (Stranger Things Happen, Small Beer Press)
“Auspicious Eggs,” James Morrow (Fantasy & Science Fiction)
“Dance of the Yellow-Breasted Luddites,” William Shunn (Vanishing Acts, edited by Ellen Datlow, Tor)
BEST SHORT STORY
“Kaddish for the Last Survivor,” Michael A. Burstein (Analog)
(winner) “The Cure for Everything,” Severna Park (SCIFI.COM)
“The Elephants on Neptune,” Mike Resnick (Asimov’s)
“Mom and Dad at the Home Front,” Sherwood Smith (Realms of Fantasy)
“Wound the Wind,” George Zebrowski (Analog)
BEST SCRIPT
O Brother, Where Art Thou?, Ethan Coen and Joel Coen (Touchstone/Universal)
X-Men, Tom DeSanto and Bryan Singer (story) David Hayter (screenplay), (20th Century Fox)
(winner)Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon , James Schamus, Kuo Jung Tsai, and Hui-Ling Wang
(Sony Pictures Classics)
The Body, Joss Whedon (Buffy the Vampire Slayerepisode)
SEVERNA PARK
“Severna Park” is the pseudonym of an artist in two media: ceramics and words. She lives in Maryland
with her partner of almost twenty years and makes her living teaching ceramics, but her literary output is
obviously far more than a sideline. Severna’s first novel,Speaking Dreams (1992), was a finalist for SF’s
Lambda Award. Her second novel,Hand of Prophecy (1998) was a Tiptree Award finalist.The
Annunciate (2001) made finalist for both awards. And in 2001, Severna’s short story “The Golem” was
on the final Nebula ballot.
And now, after all these finalists, Severna has won for a story about an unexpected peril of genetic
engineering. “The Cure for Everything” is notable for not only its thought-provoking story but also for its
rain forest atmosphere. Severna says that she has never actually been to the Amazon jungle, but she does
have “a well-thumbed collection ofNational Geographic s and a burning desire to dance the lambada in
Rio.” Clearly, those sufficed.
THE CURE FOR EVERYTHING
Severna Park
Maria was smoking damp cigarettes with Horace, taking a break in the humid evening, when the truck
full of wild jungle Indians arrived from Ipiranga. She heard the truck before she saw it, laboring through
the Xingu Forest Preserve.
“Are we expecting someone?” she said to Horace.
Horace shook his head, scratched his thin beard, and squinted into the forest. Diesel fumes drifted with
the scent of churned earth and cigarette smoke. The truck revved higher and lumbered through the Xingu
Indian Assimilation Center’s main gates.
Except for the details of their face paint, the Indians behind the flatbed’s fenced sides looked the same as
all the other new arrivals; tired and scared in their own stoic way, packed together on narrow benches,
everyone holding something—a baby, a drum, a cooking pot. Horace waved the driver to the right,
down the hill toward Intake. Maria stared at the Indians and they stared back like she was a three-armed
sideshow freak.
“Now you’ve scared the crap out of them,” said Horace, who was the director of theProjeto Brasileiro
Nacional de Assimilação do Índio . “They’ll think this place is haunted.”
“They should have called ahead,” said Maria. “I’d be out of sight, like a good little ghost.”
Horace ground his cigarette into the thin rain forest soil. “Go on down to the A/V trailer.” he said. “I’ll
give you a call in a couple of minutes.” He made an attempt to smooth his rough hair, and started after the
truck.
Maria took a last drag on the cigarette and started in the opposite direction, toward the Audio/Visual
trailer, where she could monitor what was going on in Intake without being seen. Horace was fluent in the
major Amazonian dialects of Tupi-Guaraní, Arawak, and Ge, but Maria had a gut-level understanding
that he didn’t. She was the distant voice in his ear, mumbling advice into a microphone as he interviewed
tribe after refugee tribe. She was the one picking out the nuances in language, guiding him as he spoke,
like a conscience.
Or like a ghost. She glanced over her shoulder, but the truck and the Indians were out of sight. No
matter where they were from, the Indians had some idea of how white people and black people looked,
but you’d think they’d never seen an albino in their lives. Her strange eyes, her pale, translucent skin over
African features. To most of them, she was an unknown and sometimes terrifying magical entity. To
her . . . well . . . most of them were no more or less polite than anyone she’d ever met stateside.
She stopped to scuff her cigarette into the dirt, leaned over to pick up the butt, and listened. Another
engine. Not the heavy grind of a truck this time.
She started back toward the gate. In the treetops beyond Xingu’s chain-link fence and scattered asphalt
roofs, monkeys screamed and rushed through the branches like a visible wind. Headlights flickered
between tree trunks and dense undergrowth and a Jeep lurched out of the forest. Bright red letters were
stenciled over its hood:Hiller Project .
Maria waved the driver to a stop. He and his passenger were both wearing bright red jackets, withHiller
Project embroidered over the front pocket. The driver had a broad, almost Mexican face. The
passenger was a black guy, deeply blue-black, like he was fresh off the boat from Nigeria. He gave
Maria a funny look, but she knew what it was. He’d never seen an albino either.
“We’re following the truck from Ipiranga,” the black man said in Portuguese. His name was stenciled
over his heart.N’Lykli .
She pointed down the dirt road where the overhead floodlights cut the descending dusk. “Intake’s over
there,” she said in the same language. “You should have called ahead. You’re lucky we’ve got space for
them.”
“Thanks,” said N’Lykli, and the driver put the Jeep in gear.
“Hey,” said Maria as they started to pull away. “What’s a Hiller Project?”
Another cultural rescue group, she figured, but the black guy gave her a different funny look. She didn’t
recognize it and he didn’t answer. The Jeep pulled away, jouncing down the rutted access road.
Maria groped in her pocket for another cigarette, took one out of the pack, then stuck it back in. Instead
of heading for the A/V trailer, she followed them down the hill to Intake.
•
She found N’Lykli and the driver inside with Horace, arguing in Portuguese while four of Xingu’s tribal
staffers stood around listening, impassive in their various face paint, Xingu T-shirts, and khaki shorts.
“These people have to be isolated,” the driver was saying. “They have to be isolated or we’ll lose half of
them to measles and the other half to the flu.”
He seemed overly focused on this issue, even though Horace was nodding. Horace turned to one of the
staffers and started to give instructions in the man’s native Arawak. “Drive them down to Area C. Take
the long way so you don’t go past the Waura camp.”
“No,” said N’Lykli. “We’ll drive them. You just show us where they can stay for the night.”
Horace raised an eyebrow. “For thenight? ”
“We’ll be gone in the morning,” said N’Lykli. “We have permanent quarters set up for them south of
here, in Xavantina.”
Horace drew himself up. “Once they’re on Xingu property, they’re our responsibility. You can’t just
drop in and then take them somewhere else. This isn’t a fucking motel.”
The driver pulled a sheaf of papers out of his jacket and spread them on the table. Everything was
stamped with official-looking seals andHiller Project in red letters over the top of every page. “I have
authorization.”
“So do I,” said Horace. “And mine’s part of a big fat grant fromPlano de Desenvolvimento
Econômico e Social in Brasília.”
The driver glanced at his Hiller companion.
“Let me make a phone call,” said N’Lykli. “We’ll get this straightened out.”
Horace snorted and waved him toward Maria. “She’ll show you where it is.”
“This way,” said Maria.
It wasn’t that Horace would kick the Indians out if they didn’t have authorization. He’d kick out the
Hiller whatever-the-fuck-that-was Project first, and hold on to the Indians until he knew where they were
from and what they were doing on the back of a truck. Indians were shipped out of settlements all over
Brazil as an act of mercy before the last of the tribe was gunned down by cattle ranchers, rubber tappers,
or gold miners. Xingu’s big fat grant was a sugar pill that thePlano de Desenvolvimento gave out with
one hand while stripping away thousands of years of culture with the other. Horace knew it. Everyone
knew it.
N’Lykli followed her across the compound, between swirls of floodlit mosquitoes, through the evening
din of cicadas. The phone was on the other side of the reserve, and Maria slowed down to make him
walk beside her.
“So what’s a Hiller Project?” she said.
“Oh,” he said, “we’re part of a preservation coalition.”
“Which one?” asked Maria. “Rainforest Agencies?”
“Something like that.”
“You should be a little more specific.” Maria jerked a thumb in Horace’s direction. “Horace thinks
Rainforest Agencies is a front for the World Bank, and they’re not interested in preservinganything . If
he finds out that’s who you work for, you’ll never get your little Indian friends out of here.”
N’Lykli hesitated. “Okay. You’ve heard of International Pharmaceuticals?”
“They send biologists out with the shamans to collect medicinal plants.”
“Right,” he said. “IP underwrites part of our mission.”
“You mean rain forest as medical resource?” Maria stopped. “So why’re you taking Indians from
Ipiranga to Xavantina? They won’t know anything about the medicinal plants down there. Ipiranga’s in an
entirely different ecological zone.”
He made a motion with his shoulders, a shrug, she thought, but it was more of a shudder. “There’s a dam
going up at Ipiranga,” he said. “We had to relocate them.”
“To Xavantina?” She couldn’t think of anything down there except abandoned gold mines, maybe a
rubber plantation or two. “Why can’t you leave them with us?”
“Because they’re . . . unique.”
He was being so vague, so unforthcoming, she would have guessed that the entire tribe was going to be
sold into gold-mining slavery, except something in his tone said that he really cared about what happened
to them.
“Unique?” said Maria. “You mean linguistically? Culturally?”
He stuck his hands in his pockets. He licked his lips. After a while he said, “Genetically.”
That was a first. “Oh yeah?” said Maria. “How’s that?”
“Ipiranga’s an extremely isolated valley. If it wasn’t for the dam, these people might not have been
discovered for another century. The other tribes in the area told us they were just a fairy tale.” He
glanced at her. “We don’t think there’s been any new blood in the Ipiranga population for five hundred
years.”
Maria let out a doubtful laugh. “They must be completely inbred. And sterile.”
“You’d think so,” said N’Lykli. “But they’ve been very careful.”
A whole slew of genetic consequences rose up in her mind. Mutants. Family insanities and nightmarish
physical defects passed down the generations. She knew them all. “They’d have to have written records
to keep so-and-so’s nephew from marrying his mother’s grandniece.”
“They have an oral tradition you wouldn’t believe. Their children memorize family histories back two
hundred generations. Theyknow who they’re not supposed to marry.”
Maria blinked in the insect-laden night. “But they must have a few mistakes. Someone lies to their
husband. Someone’s got a girlfriend on the side—they can’t be a hundred percent accurate.”
“If they’ve made mistakes, none of them have survived. We haven’t found any autism, or Down’s.” He
finally gave her that three-armed sideshow freak look again. “Or Lucknow’s.”
Maria clenched her teeth, clenched her fists. “Excuse me?”
“Lucknow’s Syndrome. Your albinism. That’s what it is. Isn’t it?”
She just stood there. She couldn’t decide whether to sock him or start screaming. Not even Horace
knew whatit was called. No one was supposed to mentionit . It was supposed to be as invisible as she
was.
N’Lykli shifted uncomfortably. “If you have Lucknow’s, your family must have originally been from the
Ivory Coast. They were taken as slaves to South Carolina in the late 1700s and mixed with whites who
were originally from County Cork in Ireland. That’s the typical history for Lucknow’s. It’s a bad
combination.” He hesitated. “Unless you don’t want children.”
She stared at him. Her great-grandfather from South Carolina was “high yellow,” as they said in those
days to describe how dark he wasn’t, referring not-so-subtly to the rapes of his grandmothers. His
daughter’s children turned out light skinned and light eyed, all crazy in their heads. Only one survived and
that was Maria’s mother, the least deranged, who finally went for gene testing and was told that her own
freakishly albino daughter would bear monsters instead of grandchildren. That they would be squirming,
mitten-handed imbeciles, white as maggots, dying as they exited the womb.
“Who thehell do you think you are?” whispered Maria.
“There’s a cure,” he said. “Or there will be.” He made a vague gesture into the descending night, toward
Intake. “International Pharmaceutical wants those people because their bloodlines are so carefully
documented and soclean . There’s a mutation in their genes—they all have it—it ‘resets’ the control
regions in zygotic DNA. That means their genes can be used as templates to eliminate virtually any
congenital illness—even aging. We’ve got an old lady who’s a hundred years old and sharp as a whip.
There’s a twelve-year-old girl with the genes to wipe out leukemia.” He moved closer. “We’ve got a guy
who could be a source for a hundred new vaccines. He’s incredible—the cure for everything. But we’ll
lose them all if your boss keeps them here. And he can. He has the authority.”
“Get on the phone to International Pharmaceutical,” she said and heard her voice shaking. “Get them to
twist his arm.”
“I can’t,” he said. “This isn’t a public project. We’re not even supposed to be here. We were supposed
to pick them up and get them down to the southern facility. We wouldn’t have stopped except we spent
a day fixing the truck.” He spread his hands, like the plagues of the world, not just Lucknow’s, would be
on her shoulders if she refused to lie for him. “Help us,” he said. “Tell your boss everything’s fine in
Xavantina.”
She couldn’t make herself say anything. She couldn’t make herself believe him.
He moved even closer. “You won’t be sorry,” he said in a low voice. “Do it, and I’ll make sure you
won’t ever be sorry.”
•
She took him back to Intake and told Horace that Hiller seemed to be a legit operation, that there was a
receiving area at Xavantina and it had been approved according toPlano de Desenvolvimento
standards. Horace grunted and smoked and made more irritated pronouncements about Xingu as a
cheap motel on the highway to Brazil’s industrial future. At about one in the morning, he stubbed out his
cigarette and went to bed, leaving Maria to lock up.
Maria showed N’Lykli and the Mexican driver where they could sleep, and then she walked down to
Area C, to have a better look at The Cure for Everything.
Xingu’s compounds would never make it into Frommer’s, but to fleeing tribes, the split greenwood
shelters, clean water, and firepits were five-star accommodations. The only fences were to keep the
compound areas separated. Intertribal conflicts could survive bulldozers and rifles like nothing else.
Maria passed the Xingu guard, who squinted at her, then waved her on. Closer to Area C she was
surprised to run into a second guard. A short guy—the truck driver, she realized—built like a brick and
too bulky for his Hiller jacket.
His eyes widened at the sight of Maria and he crossed himself. “You can’t come in here.”
“I work here,” snapped Maria.
“Everybody’s sleeping,” said the guard, but Maria took another step toward him, letting him get a good
look at her spirit-pale face, and his resolve seemed to evaporate. “Germs,” he said weakly. “Don’t give
them your germs.”
“I’ve had all my shots,” she said, and kept walking.
•
They weren’t asleep. It was too dark to make out details, but from her shadowy hiding place, Maria
could see seven or eight people sitting by the nearest fire, talking to each other. No different than a
hundred other intakes. Exhausted little kids had been bundled into the shelters. The adults would watch
for unknown dangers until sunrise.
Maria crouched in the leaves, invisible, and listened. Five hundred years of isolation would mean an
unfathomable dialect. She might be able to catch a word or two, but the proof of the Hiller Project would
be in what she could hear and not comprehend. She had the rest of the night to decide if N’Lykli was
lying, and if she decided he was, she would tell Horace everything in the morning. She would tell him the
exact name for her ghostliness and what N’Lykli had promised her. Horace would understand.
She squinted into the haze of wood smoke. The tone of the conversation around the fire had risen, like an
argument. One young man made wide, angry gestures. Something flashed in his ear, a brilliant ruby red,
and Maria thought she caught the word forprisoners in Tupi-Guaraní.
Across from him, a remarkably old woman pounded a walking stick on the packed dirt. The fire showed
her nearly-naked body—withered breasts and wiry muscles—striped here and there with yellow paint.
And a scarlet glint in her ear.
The old woman pounded her walking stick even harder, raising puffs of dust. Flames leaped up, giving
Maria a snapshot view of a half dozen elders with braided hair and feathers, the ruby glint in each
earlobe. Their ancient faces focused on the young man’s dissent. He shouted in a staccato burst of
glottals and rising tones, closer to Chinese opera than any Amazon Basin language Maria had ever heard.
The old woman made an unmistakably dismissive motion with both arms. Emphatic. The young man
jumped to his feet and stalked off. The elders watched him go. The old woman glowered at the fire, and
no one said another word.
In the dark, surrounded by mosquitoes and thick, damp heat, Maria eased out of her crouch. Bugs were
crawling into her socks. Her left leg was cramping and she was holding her breath, but she could feel her
body changing. She was becoming solid and brighter than she’d ever been before. Her life as a ghost
was over. Right here. In this spot. Her invisibility and their isolation. Her scrupulously unconceived,
mitten-handed mutant children, who had burrowed into her dreams for so many years, drifted around
her, dispersing like smoke, and Maria felt the trees, the dirt, the insects and night birds—everything
—hopeful and alive, and full of positive regeneration, for the first time in her life.
She got to her feet, wobbly with optimism, turned around and saw him.
He stared at her the way they all did. She stared back at his wide-set eyes and honest mouth. Yellow
face paint and brilliant macaw feathers. His ruby earring wasn’t jewelry at all, but a tiny digital sampler of
摘要：

ForCharlesSheffield,lovedandrememberedalwaysContents INTRODUCTION:EnteringtheFieldNancyKress THE2001NEBULAAWARDSBALLOT THECUREFOREVERYTHINGSevernaPark THEULTIMATEEARTHJackWilliamson BETTYBALLANTINEAPPRECIATIONShellyShapiro LOUISE’SGHOSTKellyLink UNDONEJamesPatrickKelly RHYSLINGWINNERS THEELEPHANTSON...

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