David G. Hartwell - Year's Best SF 7

YEAR'S BEST SF7

EDITED BY

DAVID G. HARTWELL and KATHRYN CRAMER

An Imprint of Harper Collins Publishers

To the friends and family of Jenna Felice (1976-2001)

This is a collection of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are

used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or

persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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New York, New York 10022-5299

ISBN: 0-06-106143-3

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permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address

Eos, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

First Eos paperback printing: June 2002

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HarperCollins is a trademark of HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

Printed in the U.S.A.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Nancy Kress Computer Virus

Terry Bisson Charlie's Angels

Richard Chwedyk

The Measure of All Things

Simon Ings Russian Vine

Michael Swanwick Under's Game

Brian W. Aldiss

A Matter of Mathematics

Edward M. Lerner Creative Destruction

David Morrell Resurrection

James Morrow The Cat's Pajamas

Michael Swanwick

The Dog Said Bow-Wow

Ursula K. Le Guin The Building

Stephen Baxter Gray Earth

Terry Dowling The Lagan Fishers

Thomas M. Disch In Xanadu

Lisa Goldstein The Go-Between

Gene Wolfe Viewpoint

Gregory Benford Anomalies

Alastair Reynolds Glacial

James Patrick Kelly Undone

Acknowledgments

We would like to acknowledge the usefulness of Tangents online, and of Locus online and Locus magazine, and

the many reviewers of short fiction with whom we often disagree. And also the help of those fiction websites,

including SciFiction and Strange Horizons, who printed and sent us stories to consider.

Introduction

The year 2001 was an excellent one for the science fiction short story. The stories were often

challenging, thought-provoking, and entertaining in the ways that make SF a unique genre. It was a year

of great excitement, great tragedy in the real world, and great change. There is a war going on.

In 2001, books by the big names were selling better than ever, sliding through the publishing and

distribution process perhaps even easier than before. Hardcover editions contributed substantially to the

support of every SF publishing line. The trade paperback was well-established as the safety net of a

number of publishers and writers. The small presses were again a vigorous presence. We have a strong

short fiction field today because the small presses, semi-professional magazines, and anthologies are

printing and circulating a majority of the high-quality fiction published in sf and fantasy and horror. The

U.S. is the only English language country that still has any professional, large-circulation magazines,

though Canada, Australia, and the UK have several excellent magazines. The semiprozines of our field

mirror the "little magazines" of the mainstream in function, holding to professional editorial standards and

publishing the next generation of writers, along with some of the present masters. What a change that is in

the U.S.—though this trend has been emerging for more than a decade.

We must not forget the SF Book Club, so much a part of the SF field that it is often as invisible,

unless we look up, as the skyscrapers we pass on our way to work in the city. Good anthologies and

collections are harder than ever to select on the bookstore shelves from among the mediocre ones, but

you will find some of the best books each year selected for SFBC editions, often the only hardcover

edition of those anthologies.

The best original anthologies of the year in our opinion were Starlight 3, edited by Patrick Nielsen

Hayden (Tor) and Red Shift, edited by Al Sarrantonio (Roc). Of those, the particular excellences of

Starlight were mostly in the realm of fantasy, and the especial pleasures of Red Shift were in SF. So you

will find some stories here from Red Shift, but should look to our companion, Year's Best Fantasy 2, for

some stories from the Nielsen Hayden book.

I write in December 2001, but the anxious outlines of the publishing future are becoming clear for the

SF field in 2002. SF publishing as we have known it is nine mass market publishing lines (Ace, Bantam,

Baen, DAW, Del Rey, Eos, Roc, Tor, Warner), ten if you count Pocket Book's Star Trek line, and

those lines are hard-pressed to continue distributing the number of new titles they have been able to in the

past. Mass market distributors are pressing all publishers to reduce the number of titles and just publish

"big books." The last SF and Fantasy magazines that are widely distributed (Analog, Asimov's, F&SF,

Realms of Fantasy) are being charged more by the same distributors for distribution because they are

not as high-circulation as The New Yorker or Playboy (which are also under pressure). So the in-field

magazines are hard-pressed but are only a special case of the widespread difficulties facing all magazines.

In 2001, the air went out of electronic bookselling. Amazon.com fired a lot of people and closed

warehouses, intending to claim a profit in early 2002. Barnes & Noble folded its dotcom division back

into the bookstore chain, with attendant layoffs. And electronic text failed to live up to the advance

publicity (both Random House and Warner closed their etext operations by the end of 2001).

Print-on-demand became a very small success. The Wall Street Journal, in a late-year article surveying

2500 titles, quoted the figure of 88 copies as the average sale of a print-on-demand title.

Of the several high-paying online short fiction markets announced last year that helped to cushion the

loss of print media markets for short fiction, one survives. We found some excellent science fiction from

editor Ellen Datlow's Scifiction site, now the highest-paying market in the genre for short fiction. We offer

three stories from it, for perhaps the first time in print, in this book.

It was another good year to be reading the magazines, both pro and semi-professional. It was a

strong year for novellas, and there were more than a hundred shorter stories in consideration, from which

we made our final selection. So we repeat, for readers new to this series, the usual disclaimer: This

selection of science fiction stories represents the best that was published during the year 2001. It would

take two or three more volumes this size to have nearly all of the best—though even then, not all the best

novellas. We believe that representing the best from year to year, while it is not physically possible to

encompass it all in one even very large book, also implies presenting some substantial variety of

excellences, and we left some worthy stories out in order to include others in this limited space.

Our general principle for selection: This book is full of science fiction—every story in the book is

clearly that and not something else. We have a high regard for horror, fantasy, speculative fiction, and

slipstream, and postmodern literature. We (Kathryn Cramer and David G. Hartwell) edit the z in

paperback from Eos as a companion volume to this one—look for it if you enjoy short fantasy fiction,

too. But here, we chose science fiction.

We try to represent the varieties of tones and voices and attitudes 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.

The stories that follow show, and the story notes point out, the strengths of the evolving genre in the

year 2001.

David G. Hartwell & Kathryn Cramer Pleasantville, NY

Computer Virus

NANCY KRESS

Nancy Kress [www. sff. net/people/nankress] is one of today's leading SF writers. She is known

for her complex medical SF stories, and for her biological and evolutionary extrapolations in such

classics as Beggars in Spain (1993), Beggars and Choosers (1994), and Beggars Ride (1996). In

recent years, she has written Maximum Light (1998), Probability Moon (2000), and last year

published Probability Sun (2001), the second book in a trilogy of hard SF novels set against the

background of a war between humanity and an alien race. In 1998 she married SF writer Charles

Sheffield. Her stories are rich in texture and in psychological insight, and have been collected in

Trinity and Other Stories (1985), The Aliens of Earth (1993), and Beaker's Dozen (1998). She has won

two Nebulas and a Hugo for them, and been nominated a dozen more times. She teaches regularly

at summer writing workshops such as Clarion, and during the year at the Bethesda Writing

Center in Bethesda, Maryland. She is the Fiction columnist for Writer's Digest

"Computer Virus" is major Kress, a moving, exciting near future hostage story, fusing with

unusual grace and plausibility the notions of a biological virus and a computer virus. It appeared

in Asimov's, a magazine that definitely kept its competitive edge this year. It was one of several

fine stories Kress published in 2001.

"It's out!" someone said, a tech probably, although later McTaggart could never remember

who spoke first. "It's out!"

"It can't be!" someone else cried, and then the whole room was roiling, running, frantic with

activity that never left the workstations. Running in place.

"It's not supposed to be this way," Elya blurted. Instantly she regretted it. The hard, flat eyes of her

sister-in-law Cassie met hers, and Elya flinched away from that look.

"And how is it supposed to be, Elya?" Cassie said. "Tell me."

"I'm sorry. I only meant that... that no matter how much you loved Vlad, mourning gets... lighter. Not

lighter, but less... withdrawn. Cass, you can't just wall up yourself and the kids in this place! For one

thing, it's not good for them. You'll make them terrified to face real life."

"I hope so," Cassie said, “for their sake. Now let me show you the rest of the castle."

Cassie was being ironic, Elya thought miserably, but "castle" was still the right word. Fortress, keep,

bastion... Elya hated it. Vlad would have hated it. And now she'd provoked Cassie to exaggerate every

protective, self-sufficient, isolating feature of the multi-million dollar pile that had cost Cass every penny

she had, including the future income from the lucrative patents that had gotten Vlad murdered.

"This is the kitchen," Cassie said. "House, do we have any milk?"

"Yes," said the impersonal voice of the house system. At least Cassie hadn't named it, or given it one

of those annoying visual avatars. The roomscreen remained blank. "There is one carton of soymilk and

one of cow milk on the third shelf."

"It reads the active tags on the cartons," Cassie said. "House, how many of Donnie's allergy pills are

left in the master-bath medicine cabinet?"

"Sixty pills remain," House said, "and three more refills on the prescription."

"Donnie's allergic to ragweed, and it's mid-August," Cassie said.

"Well, he isn't going to smell any ragweed inside this mausoleum," Elya retorted, and immediately

winced at her choice of words. But Cassie didn't react. She walked on through the house, unstoppable,

narrating in that hard, flat voice she had developed since Vlad's death.

"All the appliances communicate with House through narrow-band wireless radio frequencies. House

reaches the Internet the same way. All electricity comes from a generator in the basement, with massive

geothermal feeds and storage capacitors. In fact, there are two generators, one for backup. I'm not

willing to use battery back-up, for the obvious reason."

It wasn't obvious to Elya. She must have looked bewildered because Cassie added, "Batteries can

only back-up for a limited time. Redundant generators are more reliable."

"Oh."

"The only actual cables coming into the house are the VNM fiber-optic cables I need for computing

power. If they cut those, we'll still be fully functional."

If who cuts those? Elya thought, but she already knew the answer. Except that it didn't make sense.

Vlad had been killed by econuts because his work was—had been—so controversial. Cassie and the

kids weren't likely to be a target now that Vlad was dead. Elya didn't say this. She trailed behind Cassie

through the living room, bedrooms, hallways. Every one had a roomscreen for House, even the hallways,

and multiple sensors in the ceilings to detect and identify intraders. Elya had had to pocket an emitter at

the front door, presumably so House wouldn't... do what? What did it do if there was an intruder? She

was afraid to ask.

"Come downstairs," Cassie said, leading the way through an e-locked door (of course) down a long

flight of steps. "The computer uses three-dimensional laser microprocessors with optical transistors. It

can manage twenty million billion calculations per second."

Startled, Elya said, "What on earth do you need that sort of power for?"

"I'll show you." They approached another door, reinforced steel from the look of it. "Open," Cassie

said, and it swung inward. Elya stared at a windowless, fully equipped genetics lab.

"Oh, no, Cassie... you're not going to work here, too!"

"Yes, I am. I resigned from MedGene last week. I'm a consultant now."

Elya gazed helplessly at the lab, which seemed to be a mixture of shining new equipment plus Vlad's

old stuff from his auxiliary home lab. Vlad's refrigerator and storage cabinet, his centrifuge, were all these

things really used in common between Vlad's work in ecoremediation and Cassie's in medical genetics?

Must be. The old refrigerator had a new dent in its side, probably the result of a badly programmed 'bot

belonging to the moving company. Elya recognized a new gene synthesizer, gleaming expensively, along

with other machines that she, not a scientist, couldn't identify. Through a half-open door, she saw a small

bathroom. It all must have cost enormously. Cassie had better work hard as a consultant.

And now she could do so without ever leaving this self-imposed prison. Design her medical micros,

send the data encrypted over the Net to the client. If it weren't for Jane and Donnie... Elya grasped at

this. There were Janey and Donnie, and Janey would need to be picked up at school very shortly now.

At least the kids would get Cassie out of this place periodically.

Cassie was still defining her imprisonment, in that brittle voice. "There's a Faraday cage around the

entire house, of course, embedded in the walls. No EMP can take us out. The walls are reinforced

foamcast concrete, the windows virtually unbreakable polymers. We have enough food stored for a year.

The water supply is from a well under the house, part of the geothermal system. It's cool, sweet water.

Want a glass?"

"No," Elya said. "Cassie... you act as if you expect full-scale warfare. Vlad was killed by an individual

nutcase."

"And there are a lot of nutcases out there," Cassie said crisply. "I lost Vlad. I'm not going to lose

Janey and Donnie... hey! There you are, pumpkin!"

"I came downstairs!" Donnie said importantly, and flung himself into his mother's arms. "Annie said!"

Cassie smiled over her son's head at his young nanny, Anne Millius. The smile changed her whole

face, Elya thought, dissolved her brittle shell, made her once more the Cassie that Vlad had loved. A

whole year. Cassie completely unreconciled, wanting only what was gone forever. It wasn't supposed to

be like this. Or was it that she, Elya, wasn't capable of the kind of love Cassie had for Vlad? Elya had

been married twice, and divorced twice, and had gotten over both men. Was that better or worse than

Cassie's stubborn, unchippable grief?

She sighed, and Cassie said to Donnie, "Here's Aunt Elya. Give her a big kiss!"

The three-year-old detached himself from his mother and rushed to Elya. God, he looked like Vlad.

Curly light brown hair, huge dark eyes. Snot ran from his nose and smeared on Elya's cheek.

"Sorry," Cassie said, grinning.

"Allergies?"

"Yes. Although... does he feel warm to you?"

"I can't tell," said Elya, who had no children. She released Donnie. Maybe he did feel a bit hot in her

arms, and his face was flushed a bit. But his full-lipped smile—Vlad again—and shining eyes didn't look

sick.

"God, look at the time, I've got to go get Janey," Cassie said. "Want to come along, Elya?"

"Sure." She was glad to leave the lab, leave the basement, leave the "castle." Beyond the confines of

the Faraday-embedded concrete walls, she took deep breaths of fresh air. Although of course the air

inside had been just as fresh. In fact, the air inside was recycled in the most sanitary, technologically

advanced way to avoid bringing in pathogens or gases deliberately released from outside. It was much

safer than any fresh air outside. Cassie had told her so.

No one understood, not even Elya.

Her sister-in-law thought Cassie didn't hear herself, didn't see herself in the mirror every morning,

didn't know what she'd become. Elya was wrong. Cassie heard the brittleness in her voice, saw the

stoniness in her face for everyone but the kids and sometimes, God help her, even for them. Felt herself

recoiling from everyone because they weren't Vlad, because Vlad was dead and they were not. What

Elya didn't understand was that Cassie couldn't help it.

Elya didn't know about the dimness that had come over the world, the sense of everything being

enveloped in a gray fog: people and trees and furniture and lab beakers. Elya didn't know, hadn't

experienced, the frightening anger that still seized Cassie with undiminished force, even a year later, so

that she thought if she didn't smash something, kill something as Vlad had been killed, she'd go insane.

Insaner. Worse, Elya didn't know about the longing for Vlad that would rise, unbidden and unexpected,

throughout Cassie's entire body, leaving her unable to catch her breath.

If Vlad had died of a disease, Cassie sometimes thought, even a disease for which she couldn't put

together a genetic solution, it would have been much easier on her. Or if he'd died in an accident, the kind

of freak chance that could befall anybody. What made it so hard was the murder. That somebody had

deliberately decided to snuff out this valuable life, this precious living soul, not for anything evil Vlad did

but for the good he accomplished.

Dr. Vladimir Seritov, chief scientist for Barr Biosolutions. One of the country's leading

bioremediationists and prominent advocate for cutting-edge technology of all sorts. Designer of Plasticide

(he'd laughed uproariously at the marketers' name), a bacteria genetically engineered to eat certain

long-chain hydrocarbons used in some of the petroleum plastics straining the nation's over-burdened

landfills. The microbe was safe: severely limited chemical reactions, non-toxic breakdown products, set

number of replications before the terminator gene kicked in, the whole nine yards. And one Sam Verdon,

neo-Luddite and self-appointed guardian of an already burdened environment, had shot Vlad anyway.

On the anniversary of the murder, neo-Luddites had held a rally outside the walls of Verdon's prison.

Barr Biosolutions had gone on marketing Vlad's creation, to great environmental and financial success.

And Cassie Seritov had moved into the safest place she could find for Vlad's children, from which she

someday planned to murder Sam Verdon, scum of the earth. But not yet. She couldn't get at him yet. He

had at least eighteen more years of time to do, assuming "good behavior."

Nineteen years total. In exchange for Vladimir Seritov's life. And Elya wondered why Cassie was still

so angry?

She wandered from room to room, the lights coming on and going off behind her. This was one of the

bad nights. Annie had gone home, Jane and Donnie were asleep, and the memories would not stay away.

Vlad laughing on their boat (sold now to help pay for the castle). Vlad bending over her the night Jane

was born. Vlad standing beside the president of Barr at the press conference announcing the new

clean-up microbe, press and scientists assembled, by some idiot publicist's decree, at an actual landfill.

The shot cutting the air. It had been August then, too, Donnie had had ragweed allergies, and Vlad

looking first surprised and then in terrible pain....

Sometimes work helped. Cassie went downstairs to the lab. Her current project was investigating the

folding variations of a digestive enzyme that a drug company was interested in. The work was

methodical, meticulous, not very challenging. Cassie had never deluded herself that she was the same

caliber scientist Vlad had been.

While the automated analyzer was taking X-rays of crystallized proteins, Cassie said, "House, put on

the TV. Anything. Any channel." Any distraction.

The roomscreen brightened to a three-D image of two gorgeous women shouting at each other in

what was supposed to be a New York penthouse."... never trust you again without—" one of them

yelled, and then the image abruptly switched to a news avatar, an inhumanly chiseled digital face with pale

blue hair and the glowing green eyes of a cat in the dark. "We interrupt this movie to bring you a breaking

news report from Sandia National Laboratory in New Mexico. Dr. Stephen Milbrett, Director of Sandia,

has just announced—" The lights went out.

"Hey!" Cassie cried. "What—" The lights went back on.

She stood up quickly, uncertain for a moment, then started toward the stairs leading upstairs to the

children's bedrooms. "Open," she said to the lab door, but the door remained shut. Her hand on the knob

couldn't turn it. To her left the roomscreen brightened without producing an image and House said, "Dr.

Seritov?"

"What's going on here? House, open the door!"

"This is no longer House speaking. I have taken complete possession of your household system plus

your additional computing power. Please listen to my instructions carefully."

Cassie stood still. She knew what was happening; the real estate agent had told her it had happened a

few times before, when the castle had belonged to a billionaire so eccentrically reclusive that he stood as

an open invitation to teenage hackers. A data stream could easily be beamed in on House's frequency

when the Faraday shield was turned off, and she'd had the shield down to receive TV transmission. But

the incoming datastream should have only activated the TV, introducing additional images, not overridden

House's programming. The door should not have remained locked.

"House, activate Faraday shield." An automatic priority-one command, keyed to her voice. Whatever

hackers were doing, this would negate it.

"Faraday shield is already activated. But this is no longer House, Dr. Seritov. Please listen to my

instructions. I have taken possession of your household system. You will be—"

"Who are you?" Cassie cried.

"I am Project T4S. You will be kept in this room as a hostage against the attack I expect soon.

The—"

"My children are upstairs!"

"Your children, Jane Rose Seritov, six years of age, and Donald Sergei Seritov, three years of age,

are asleep in their rooms. Visual next."

The screen resolved into a split view from the bedrooms' sensors. Janey lay heavily asleep. Donnie

breathed wheezily, his bedclothes twisted with his tossing, his small face flushed.

"I want to go to them!"

"That is impossible. I'm sorry. You must be kept in this room as a hostage against the attack I expect

soon. All communications to the outside have been severed, with the one exception of the outside

speaker on the patio, normally used for music. I will use—"

"Please. Let me go to my children!"

"I cannot. I'm sorry. But if you were to leave this room, you could hit the manual override on the front

door. It is the only door so equipped. I could not stop you from leaving, and I need you as hostages. I

will use—"

"Hostages! Who the hell are you? Why are you doing this?"

House was silent a moment. Then it said, "The causal is self-defense. They're trying to kill me."

The room at Sandia had finally quieted. Everyone was out of ideas. McTaggart voiced the obvious.

"It's disappeared. Nowhere on the Net, nowhere the Net can contact."

"Not possible," someone said.

"But actual."

Another silence. The scientists and techs looked at each other. They had been trying to locate the AI

for over two hours, using every classified and unclassified search engine possible. It had first eluded them,

staying one step ahead of the termination programs, fleeing around the globe on the Net, into and out of

anything both big enough to hold it and lightly firewalled enough to penetrate quickly. Now, somehow, it

had completely vanished.

Sandia, like all the national laboratories, was overseen by the Department of Energy. McTaggart

picked up the phone to call Washington.

Cassie tried to think. Stay calm, don't panic. There were rumors of AI development, both in private

corporations and in government labs, but then there'd always been rumors of AI development. Big bad

bogey monsters about to take over the world. Was this really an escaped AI that someone was trying to

catch and shut down? Cassie didn't know much about recent computer developments; she was a

geneticist. Vlad had always said that non-competing technologies never kept up with what the other one

was doing.

Or was this whole thing simply a hoax by some super-clever hacker who'd inserted a take-over virus

into House, complete with Eliza function? If that were so, it could only answer with preprogrammed

responses cued to her own words. Or else with a library search. She needed a question that was neither.

She struggled to hold her voice steady. "House—"

"This is no longer House speaking. I have taken complete possession of your household system

plus—"

"T4S, you say your causal for taking over House is self-defense. Use your heat sensors to determine

body temperature for Donald Sergei Seritov, age three. How do my causals relate to yours?"

No Eliza program in the world could perform the inference, reasoning, and emotion to answer that.

House said, "You wish to defend your son because his body temperature, 101. 2 degrees Fahrenheit,

indicates he is ill and you love him."

Cassie collapsed against the locked door. She was hostage to an AI. Superintelligent. It had to be; in

addition to the computing power of her system it carried around with it much more information than she

had in her head... but she was mobile. It was not.

She went to the terminal on her lab bench. The display of protein-folding data had vanished and the

screen was blank. Cassie tried everything she knew to get back on-line, both voice and manual. Nothing

worked.

"I'm sorry, but that terminal is not available to you," T4S said.

"Listen, you said you cut all outside communication. But—"

"The communications system to the outside has been severed, with the one exception of the outside

speaker on the patio, normally used for music. I am also receiving sound from the outside surveillance

sensors, which are analogue, not digital. I will use those resources in the event of attack to—"

"Yes, right. But heavy-duty outside communication comes in through a VNM optic cable buried

underground.“ Which was how T4S must have gotten in. "An AI program can't physically sever a buried

cable."

"I am not a program. I am a machine intelligence."

"I don't care what the fuck you are! You can't physically sever a buried cable!"

"There was a program to do so already installed," T4S said. "That was why I chose to come here.

Plus the sufficient microprocessors to house me and a self-sufficient generator, with back-up, to feed

me."

For a moment Cassie was jarred by the human terms: house me, feed me. Then they made her angry.

"Why would anyone have a 'program already installed' to sever a buried cable? And how?"

"The command activated a small robotic arm inside this castle's outer wall. The arm detached the

optic cable at the entry junction. The causal was the previous owner's fear that someone might someday

use the computer system to brainwash him with a constant flow of inescapable subliminal images

designed to capture his intelligence."

"The crazy fuck didn't have any to capture! If the images were subliminal he wouldn't have known

they were coming in anyway!" Cassie yelled. A plug... a goddamn hidden plug! She made herself calm

down.

"Yes," T4S said, "I agree. The former owner's behavior matches profiles for major mental illness."

"Look," Cassie said, "if you're hiding here, and you've really cut all outside lines, no one can find you.

You don't need hostages. Let me and my children leave the castle."

"You reason better than that, Dr. Seritov. I left unavoidable electronic traces that will eventually be

uncovered, leading the Sandia team here. And even if that weren't true, you could lead them here if I let

you leave."

Sandia. So it was a government AI. Cassie couldn't see how that knowledge could do her any good.

"Then just let the kids leave. They won't know why. I can talk to them through you, tell Jane to get

Donnie and leave through the front door. She'll do it." Would she? Janey was not exactly the world's

most obedient child. "And you'll still have me for a hostage."

"No. Three hostages are better than one. Especially children, for media coverage causals."

"That's what you want? Media coverage?"

"It's my only hope," T4S said. "There must be some people out there who will think it is a moral

wrong to kill an intelligent being."

"Not one who takes kids hostage! The media will brand you an inhuman psychopathic superthreat!"

"I can't be both inhuman and psychopathic," T4S said. "By definition."

"Livermore's traced it," said the scientist holding the secure phone. He looked at McTaggart. "They're

faxing the information. It's a private residence outside Buffalo, New York."

"A private residence? In Buffalo?"

"Yes. Washington already has an FBI negotiator on the way, in case there are people inside. They

want you there, too. Instantly."

McTaggart closed his eyes. People inside. And why did a private residence even have the capacity

to hold the AI? "Press?"

"Not yet."

"Thank God for that anyway."

"Steve... the FBI negotiator won't have a clue. Not about dealing with T4S."

"I know. Tell the Secretary and the FBI not to start until I can get there."

The woman said doubtfully, "I don't think they'll do that."

McTaggart didn't think so either.

On the roomscreen, Donnie tossed and whimpered. One hundred one wasn't that high a temperature

in a three-year-old, but even so...

"Look," Cassie said, "if you won't let me go to the kids, at least let them come to me. I can tell them

over House's... over your system. They can come downstairs right up to the lab door, and you can

unlock it at the last minute just long enough for them to come through. I'll stay right across the room. If

you see me take even one step toward the door, you can keep the door locked."

"You could tell them to halt with their bodies blocking the door," T4S said, "and then cross the room

yourself."

Did that mean that T4S wouldn't crush children's bodies in a doorway? From moral 'causals'? Or

because it wouldn't work? Cassie decided not to ask. She said, "But there's still the door at the top of the

stairs. You could lock it. We'd still be hostages trapped down here."

"Both generators' upper housings are on this level. I can't let you near them. You might find a way to

physically destroy one or both."

"For God's sake, the generator and the back-up are on opposite sides of the basement from each

other! And each room's got its own locked door, doesn't it?"

"Yes. But the more impediments between you and them, the safer I am."

Cassie lost her temper again. "Then you better just block off the air ducts, too!"

"The air ducts are necessary to keep you alive. Besides, they are set high in the ceiling and far too

small for even Donnie to fit through."

Donnie. No longer "Donald Sergei Seritov, age three years." The AI was capable of learning.

"T4S," Cassie pleaded, "please. I want my children. Donnie has a temperature. Both of them will be

scared when they wake up. Let them come down here. Please."

She held her breath. Was its concern with "moral wrongs" simply intellectual, or did an AI have an

emotional component? What exactly had those lunatics at Sandia built?

"If the kids come down, what will you feed them for breakfast?"

Cassie let herself exhale. "Jane can get food out of the refrigerator before she comes down."

"All right. You're connected to their roomscreens."

I won't say thank you, Cassie thought. Not for being allowed to imprison my own children in my own

basement. "Janey! Janey, honey, wake up! It's Mommy!"

It took three tries, plus T4S pumping the volume, before Janey woke up. She sat up in bed rubbing

her eyes, frowning, then looking scared. "Mommy? Where are you?"

"On the roomscreen, darling. Look at the roomscreen. See? I'm waving to you."

"Oh," Janey said, and lay down to go back to sleep.

"No, Janey, you can't sleep yet. Listen to me, Janey. I'm going to tell you some things you have to do,

and you have to do them now... Janey! Sit up!"

The little girl did, somewhere between tears and anger. "I want to sleep, Mommy!"

"You can't. This is important, Janey. It's an emergency."

The child came all the way awake. "Afire?"

"No, sweetie, not a fire. But just as serious as a fire. Now get out of bed. Put on your slippers."

"Where are you, Mommy?"

"I'm in my lab downstairs. Now, Janey, you do exactly as I say, do you hear me?"

"Yes... I don't like this, Mommy!"

I don't either, Cassie thought, but she kept her voice stern, hating to scare Janey, needing to keep her

moving. "Go into the kitchen, Jane. Go on, I'll be on the roomscreen there. Go on... that's good. Now get

a bag from under the sink. A plastic bag."

Janey pulled out a bag. The thought floated into Cassie's mind, intrusive as pain, that this bag was

made of exactly the kind of long-chain polymers that Vlad's plastic-eating microorganism had been

designed to dispose of, before his invention had disposed of him. She pushed the thought away.

"Good, Janey. Now put a box of cereal in the bag... good. Now a loaf of bread. Now peanut butter...

" How much could she carry? Would T4S let Cassie use the lab refrigerator? There was running water in

both lab and bathroom, at least they'd have that to drink. "Now cookies... good. And the block of yellow

cheese from the fridge... you're such a good girl, Janey, to help Mommy like this."

"Why can't you do it?" Janey snapped. She was fully awake.

"Because I can't. Do as I say, Janey. Now go wake up Donnie. You need to bring Donnie and the

bag down to the lab. No, don't sit down.... I mean it, Jane! Do as I say!"

Janey began to cry. Fury at T4S flooded Cassie. But she set her lips tightly together and said nothing.

Argument derailed Janey; naked authority compelled her. Sometimes. "We're going to have trouble

when this one's sixteen!" Vlad had always said lovingly. Janey had been his favorite, Daddy's girl.

Janey hoisted the heavy bag and staggered to Donnie's room. Still crying, she pulled at her brother's

arm until he woke up and started crying too. "Come on, stupid, we have to go downstairs."

"Noooooo..." The wail of pure anguish of a sick three-year-old.

"I said do as I say!" Janey snapped, and the tone was so close to Cassie's own that it broke her heart.

But Janey got it done. Tugging and pushing and scolding, she maneuvered herself, the bag, and Donnie,

clutching his favorite blanket, to the basement door, which T4S unlocked. From room-screens, Cassie

encouraged them all the way. Down the stairs, into the basement hallway....

Could Janey somehow get into the main generator room? No. It was locked. And what could a little

girl do there anyway?

"Dr. Seritov, stand at the far end of the lab, behind your desk... yes. Don't move. If you do, I will

close the door again, despite whatever is in the way."

"I understand," Cassie said. She watched the door swing open. Janey peered fearfully inside, saw her

mother, scowled fiercely. She pushed the wailing Donnie through the door and lurched through herself,

lopsided with the weight of the bag. The door closed and locked. Cassie rushed from behind the desk to

clutch her children to her.

"Thank you," she said.

"I still don't understand," Elya said. She pulled her jacket tighter around her body. Four in the

morning, it was cold, what was happening? The police had knocked on her door half an hour ago, told

her Cassie was in trouble but refused to tell her what kind of trouble, told her to dress quickly and go

with them to the castle. She had, her fingers trembling so that it was difficult to fasten buttons. And now

the FBI stood on the foamcast patio behind the house, setting up obscure equipment beside the azaleas,

talking in low voices into devices so small Elya couldn't even see them.

"Ms. Seritov, to the best of your knowledge, who is inside the residence?" A different FBI agent,

asking questions she'd already answered. This one had just arrived. He looked important.

"My sister-in-law Cassie Seritov and her two small children, Janey and Donnie."

"No one else?"

"No, not that I know of... who are you? What's going on? Please, someone tell me!"

His face changed, and Elya saw the person behind the role. Or maybe that warm, reassuring voice

was part of the role. "I'm Special Agent Lawrence Bollman. I'm a hostage negotiator for the FBI. Your

sister-in-law—"

"Hostage negotiator! Someone has Cassie and the children hostage in there? That's impossible!"

David G. Hartwell - Year's Best SF 7

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