David G. Hartwell - Year's Best SF 5

YEAR’S

BEST

SF 5

EDITED BY

DAVID G. HARTWELL

This year's volume is dedicated to my attorney, Vivienne Garfinkle, Esq., because it pleases me to do so,

and to Geoffrey S. Hartwell, B.A., for jobs well done, and with particular gratitude to John Silbersack,

who understood the idea, without whom this book would not exist.

Acknowledgments

I would like to acknowledge the valuable assistance 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

circumstances.

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Contents

Introduction

Geoff Ryman

Everywhere

Elisabeth Malartre

Evolution Never Sleeps

Kim Stanley Robinson

Sexual Dimorphism

Robert Reed

Game of the Century

Michael Bishop

Secrets of the Alien Reliquary

Sarah Zettel

Kinds of Strangers

Cory Doctorow

Visit the Sins

Greg Egan

Border Guards

Terry Bisson

Macs

Chris Lawson

Written in Blood

Gene Wolfe

Has Anybody Seen Junie Moon?

Robert J. Sawyer

The Blue Planet

Mary Soon Lee

Lifework

Fred Lerner

Rosetta Stone

Brian Aldiss

An Apollo Asteroid

Curt Wohleber

100 Candles

G. David Nordley

Democritus' Violin

Tom Purdom

Fossil Games

Chris Beckett

Valour

Stephen Baxter

Huddle

Brian M. Stableford

Ashes and Tombstones

Michael Swanwick

Ancient Engines

Hiroe Suga

Freckled Figure

Barry N. Malzberg

Shiva

Lucy Sussex

The Queen of Erewhon

About the Editor

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, Space 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become outdated fantasy too soon.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. Dick 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, perhaps

because 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 Analog, 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 encompass 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 space.

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 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.

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. Dick'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. Dick 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 it

was 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

Woodpecker 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 God 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, and

just lay there on the grass. 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 municipal 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 Saturday 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're

smart. 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 nobody 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 fêtes. 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.

So I just went and stood there for a bit, looking down on the river. Me Granddad used to take me

sailing. We'd push off from the Haughs, and shoot out under this bridge, I could see where we were

practically. And we'd go all the way down the Tyne and out to sea. He used to take me out to where the

dolphins were. You'd see Liam come up. He was still wearing his computer, Liam, like a crown.

So I'm standing on the bridge, and me watch says: go down to the swimming pool, and go and tell

Liam that Granddad's dead.

It's a bit like a dog I guess. You got to show one dog the dead body of the other or it will pine.

So I went down to the pool, but it's late and raining and there's nobody there, and I start to call him,

like: Liam! Liam! But he wasn't there.

So me watch says: he's wearing his computer: give him a call on his mobile.

So me watch goes bleep bleep bleep, and there's a crackle and suddenly I hear a whoosh and

crickle, and there's all these cold green waves on the face of my watch, and I say Liam? Liam, this is me,

remember me, Liam? My Granddad's dead Liam. I thought you might need to know.

But what is he, just a dolphin right, I don't know what it meant. How's he supposed to know who I

am. You all right then, Liam? Catching lots of fish are you? So I hung up.

And I stand there, and the rain's really bucketing down, and I don't want to go home. Talking to

yourself. It's the first sign, you know.

And suddenly me watch starts up again, and it's talking to me with Granddad's voice. You wanna

hear what it said? Here. Hear.

Hello there, Landlubber. How are ya? This is your old Granddad. It's a dead clever world we live in,

isn't it? They've rigged this thing up here, so that I can put this in your watch for when you need it.

Listen, me old son. You mustn't grieve, you know. Things are different now. They know how it

works. We used to think we had a little man in our heads who watched everything on a screen and when

you died he went to heaven not you. Now, they know, there's no little man, there's no screen. There's

just a brain putting everything together. And what we do is ask ourselves: what do we think about next?

What do we do next?

You know all about those dimension things, don't you? Well I got a name for them. I call them

Everywhere. Cos they are. And I want you to know, that I'm Everywhere now.

That's how we live forever in heaven these days And it's true, me old son. You think of me still

travelling around Mexico before I met your Mamby. Think of me in India. Think of me learning all about

readies to keep up with you lot. Think of me on me boat, sailing out to sea. Remember that day I took

you sailing out beyond the Tyne mouth? It's still there, Landlubber.

You know, all the evil in the world, all the sadness comes from not having a good answer to that

question: what do I do next? You just keep thinking of good things to do, lad. You'll be all right. We'll all

be all right. I wanted you to know that.

I got me footie on Saturdays, Granddad. Then I'm thinking I'll start up school again. They got a

sailing club now. I thought I'd join it, Granddad, thought I'd take them out to where you showed me the

dolphins. I'll tell them about Everywhere.

Did you know, Granddad?

They're making a new kind of watch. It's going to show us Every where, too.

Evolution Never Sleeps

ELISABETH MALARTRE

Elisabeth Malartre is a new writer, a biologist, with a Ph.D from the University of California at

Irvine, who works as an environmental consultant and science writer. Her first sale was a 1997

novella about the first Mars expedition, co-authored with Gregory Benford, “A Cold, Dry,

Cradle,” that Benford expanded it into his novel, The Martian Race.

“I consider myself first and foremost a science educator, and everything I do is related to that.

I've spent 20 years successfully preserving land in Orange County, CA, a bastion of reactionary

conservatism, but then I'm pretty stubborn. Sometimes I teach at local colleges—human evolution,

human ecology or environmental science. I also train people to be volunteer naturalists. I write a

regular science column for a weekly paper, bringing biological theory down to the level of

everyday experience. Although I have a loyal readership, there are many people who will never

look at a science article. Those are the people I'm trying to reach through my fiction.

“Although I started writing science fiction only about 4 years ago, I've been reading it for well

over 40 years. My speciality is hard sf with biological themes”

“Evolution Never Sleeps” is her second published story. It appeared in Asimov's, which had a

great year in 1999. The hard science is evolutionary biology and the idea, while reminiscent of the

riotously rubber-science B-movies of the 1950s, is rigorously executed and made serious. It

teaches us something about the bedrock scientific theory of Evolution, upon which so much SF

has been based since 1895.

Death came instantaneously to the deer. The dark blue semi had been laboring up the final

quarter mile of the Sherwin grade, fighting the rapidly thinning air. Its head-lights picked out roadside pine

trees, their nearest branches blown away by the snowblowers of winters past. As it crested the summit

the truck began to pick up speed, hitting its stride on the gradual downhill. It was a crisp summer night,

sky sprinkled with stars, light traffic on route 395.

A few miles later, just beyond the offramp to Mammoth Lakes, a six point buck leaped off the

shoulder of the road into the truck's grille. The lifeless body arced back to the right shoulder of the road,

landing in a crumpled heap amidst the low shrubs. The truck swerved slightly, shifted gears and roared

off toward Bridgeport. The stars glittered coldly over the slightly twitching body. Blood no longer

pumped by the stilled heart trickled out of its open mouth. After a few minutes there was a soft stirring

sound in the shrubs near the deer.

Fred Morales aimed his orange stakebed truck at the shoulder where the deer lay, happy to have

finally found the carcass. He'd driven by the site twice without noticing it hidden there in the bushes. But

the motorist who'd called it in to Caltrans had been right about the location after all. This was the last one

before lunch. The sun reflected off the hood of the truck into his eyes and he was thirsty. What a

job—collecting road kills. This one was pretty fresh, belly not too full of gas. It wouldn't be half bad, and

there was a breeze to boot. Nevertheless, he stood carefully upwind as he tied the rope around the legs.

There was a sudden rustle and a flash of movement in the small grey-green shrubs next to the carcass

as the winch started to move it toward the truck. Fred Morales leaped back onto the asphalt reflexively,

before the front of his brain realized what he had seen.

“Squirrels,” he said out loud. “Just squirrels.” His heart pounded. Sometimes there were snakes

under the bodies. Fred Morales didn't like snakes, didn't like to be surprised by them. He blew out a

long breath to steady himself. “Just fuckin' squirrels.” Nevertheless, he hurriedly finished winching the

carcass onto the Caltrans truck with the other road kills and drove away without looking back.

“What do you do—sample 'em before you bring 'em in?” Ron Feister squatted down and poked at

the carcass Fred had unloaded at his feet at the dump site.

“Huh?” Fred looked where the Fish & Game biologist pointed. Several places on the carcass had

been nibbled, small red patches against the dusty brown of the pelt.

“See what was eating this deer?”

“Wasn't nothing on it—no birds…”

“Nope, no smell, too soon for buzzards. Not right for coyote either. They tear off pieces, drag 'em

away to eat.”

“Only thing I saw was squirrels.”

“Squirrels? What did they look like?”

“Dunno…little, fast, you know…with stripes.”

“Chipmunks, you mean? Stripes on the head?”

“Guess so.”

Feister stood up. “Huh. Where did you get this one?”

“On 395, near 203. Why, something funny?”

“Just a little unusual. Let me know if you get another one like this, okay?”

“Sure. You done? I want to dump the rest of these stinkers.”

“Go for it. See you, Fred.” Feister strode off toward his truck. Chipmunks? I'll be damned.

Janice Reidel stopped her jeep as she came to the dead snake lying on the grey asphalt. In her mind

she spun a prayer wheel for the soul of the dead animal before alighting from the vehicle. She admired the

smooth scaly carcass. The graceful sweep of its body was interrupted where the car tire had squashed it.

A small pocket of pink guts squeezed out through the dark stripes on the scales. Striped racer, she

decided, picking it up by its tail and gently tossing it into the roadside bushes. She always did this to road

kills. Left on the asphalt, the kill would tempt scavengers like buzzards, ravens or coyotes onto the

roadway, where they were apt to be hit themselves. How often had she seen ground squirrels scatter

from a fallen colleague's body as the jeep approached? The tar pit syndrome. I'll tell Jeff about this one

David G. Hartwell - Year's Best SF 5

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