Nebula Awards Showcase 2016 (55 page)

“Protected, not imprisoned. The way we're protecting you now by keeping the Denebs off-shore.”

“Oh, you're doing that, are you? That was the aliens' decision. Do you think that if they had wanted to plop their pavilion in the middle of Times Square that your Border Patrol could have stopped them? They're a starfaring race, for chrissake!”

“Nobody said the—”

Noah shouted, which was the only way to get their attention, “Elizabeth, your cell is ringing! It says it's Mom!”

They both stared at the cell as if at a bomb, and then Elizabeth lunged for the phone. “Mom?”

“It's me. You called but—”

“Where have you been? What happened? What was the FBI—”

“I'll tell you everything. Are you and Ryan still at your place?”

“Yes. You sound funny. Are you sure you're okay?”

“Yes. No. Stay there, I'll get a cab, but it may be a few hours yet.”

“But where—”

The phone went dead. Ryan and Elizabeth stared at each other. Into the silence, Noah said, “Oh yeah, Mom. Noah's here, too.”

MARIANNE

“You are surprised,” Ambassador Smith had said, unnecessarily.

Courtesy had been swamped in shock. “You're
human
? From Earth?”

“Yes. We think so.”

“Your mitochondrial DNA matches the L7 sequence? No, wait—your whole biology matches ours?”

“There are some differences, of course. We—”

The Russian delegate stood up so quickly her chair fell over. She spat something which her translator gave as a milder, “‘I do not understand how this is possible.'”

“I will explain,” Smith said. “Please sit down.”

Ekaterina Zaytsev did not sit. All at once Marianne wondered if the energy field enveloping Smith was weaponized.

Smith said, “We have known for millennia that we did not originate on World. There is no fossil record of us going back more than 150,000 Earth years. The life forms native to World are DNA-based, but there is no direct genetic link. We know that someone took us from somewhere else and—”

“Why?” Marianne blurted. “Why would they do that? And who is ‘they'?”

Before Smith could answer, Zaytsev said, “Why should your planet's native life-forms be DNA-based at all? If this story is not a collection of lies?”

“Panspermia,” Smith said. “And we don't know why we were seeded from Earth to World. An experiment, perhaps, by a race now gone. We—”

The Chinese ambassador was murmuring to his translator. The translator, American and too upset to observe protocol, interrupted Smith.

“Mr. Zhu asks how, if you are from Earth, you progressed to space travel so much faster than we have? If your brains are the same as ours?”

“Our evolution was different.”

Marianne darted in with, “How? Why? A hundred fifty thousand years is not enough for more than superficial evolutionary changes!”

“Which we have,” Smith said, still in that mechanical voice that Marianne suddenly hated. Its very detachment sounded condescending. “World's gravity, for instance, is one-tenth less than Earth's, and our internal organs and skeletons have adjusted. World is warmer than Earth, and you can see that we carry little body fat. Our eyes are much larger than yours—we needed to gather all the light we can on a planet dimmer than yours. Most plants on World are dark, to gather as many photons as possible. We are dazzled by the colors on Earth.”

He smiled, and Marianne remembered that all human cultures share certain facial expressions: happiness, disgust, anger.

Smith continued, “But when I said that our evolution differed from yours, I was referring to social evolution. World is a more benign planet than Earth. Little axial tilt, many easy-to-domesticate grains, much food, few predators. We had no Ice Age. We settled into agriculture over a hundred thousand years before you did.”

Over a hundred thousand years more of settled communities, of cities, with their greater specialization and intellectual cross-fertilization. While Marianne's ancestors fifteen thousand years ago had still been hunting mastodons and gathering berries, these cousins across the galaxy might have been exploring quantum physics. But—

She said, “Then with such an environment, you must have had an overpopulation problem. All easy ecological niches rapidly become overpopulated!”

“Yes. But we had one more advantage.” Smith paused; he was giving the translators time to catch up, and she guessed what that meant even before he spoke again.

“The group of us seeded on World—and we estimate it was no more than a thousand—were all closely related. Most likely they were all brought from one place. Our gene pool does not show as much diversity as yours. More important, the exiles—or at least a large number of them—happened to be unusually mild-natured and cooperative. You might say, ‘sensitive to other's suffering.' We have had wars, but not very many, and not early on. We were able to control the population problem, once we saw it coming, with voluntary measures. And, of course, those sub-groups that worked together best, made the earliest scientific advances and flourished most.”

“You replaced evolution of the fittest with evolution of the most cooperative,” Marianne said, and thought:
There goes Dawkins
.

“You may say that.”

“
I
not say this,” Zaytsev said, without waiting for her translator. Her face twisted. “How you know you come from Earth? And how know where is Earth?”

“Whoever took us to World left titanium tablets, practically indestructible, with diagrams. Eventually we learned enough astronomy to interpret them.”

Moses on the mountain
, Marianne thought.
How conveniently neat!
Profound distrust swamped her, followed by profound belief. Because, after all, here the aliens were, having arrived in a starship, and they certainly looked human. Although—

She said abruptly, “Will you give us blood samples? Tissue? Permit medical scans?”

“Yes.”

The agreement was given so simply, so completely, that everyone fell silent. Marianne's dazed mind tried to find the scam in this, this possible nefarious treachery, and failed. It was quiet Zhu Feng who, through his translator, finally broke the silence.

“Tell us, please, honored envoy, why you are here at all?”

Again Smith answered simply. “To save you all from destruction.”

NOAH

Noah slipped out of the apartment, feeling terrible but not terrible enough to stay. First transgression: If Mom returned earlier than she'd said, he wouldn't be there when she arrived. Second transgression: He'd taken twenty dollars from Elizabeth's purse. Third transgression: He was going to buy sugarcane.

But he'd left Elizabeth and Ryan arguing yet again about isolationism, the same argument in the same words as when he'd seen them last, four months ago. Elizabeth pulled out statistics showing that the United States' only option for survival, including avoiding revolution, was to retain and regain jobs within its borders, impose huge tariffs on imports, and rebuild infrastructure. Ryan trotted out different statistics proving that only globalization could, after a period of disruption, bring economic benefits in the long run, including a fresh flow of workers into a graying America. They had gotten to the point of hurtling words like “Fascist” and “sloppy thinker,” when Noah left.

He walked the three blocks to Broadway. It was, as always, brightly lit, but the gyro places and electronics shops and restaurants, their outside tables empty and chained in the cold dusk, looked shabbier than he remembered. Some stores were not just shielded by grills but boarded up. He kept walking east, toward Central Park.

The dealer huddled in a doorway. He wasn't more than fifteen. Sugarcane was a low-cost, low-profit drug, not worth the gangs' time, let alone that of organized crime. The kid was a free-lance amateur, and God knows what the sugarcane was cut with.

Noah bought it anyway. In the nearest Greek place he bought a gyro as the price of the key to the bathroom and locked himself in. The room was windowless but surprisingly clean. The testing set that Noah carried everywhere showed him the unexpected: the sugarcane was cut only with actual sugar, and only by about fifty percent.

“Thank you, Lord,” he said to the toilet, snorted twice his usual dose, and went back to his table to eat the cooling gyro and wait.

The drug took him quickly, as it always did. First came a smooth feeling, as if the synapses of his brain were filling with rich, thick cream. Then: One moment he was Noah Jenner, misfit, and the next he wasn't. He felt like a prosperous small businessman of some type, a shop-owner maybe, financially secure and blissfully uncomplicated. A contented, centered person who never questioned who he was or where he was going, who fit in wherever he happened to be. The sort of man who could eat his gyro and gaze out the window without a confusing thought in his head.

Which he did, munching away, the juicy meat and mild spices satisfying in his mouth, for a quiet half-hour.

Except—something was happening on the street.

A group of people streamed down Broadway. A parade. No, a mob. They carried torches, of all things, and something larger on fire, carried high. . . . Now Noah could hear shouting. The thing carried high was an effigy made of straw and rags, looking like the alien in a hundred bad movies: big blank head, huge eyes, spindly body of pale green. It stood in a small metal tub atop a board. Someone touched a torch to the straw and set the effigy on fire.

Why? As far as Noah could see, the aliens weren't bothering anybody. They were even good for business. It was just an excuse for people floundering in a bad economy to vent their anger—

Were these his thoughts? Noah's? Who was he now?

Police sirens screamed farther down the street. Cops appeared on foot, in riot gear. A public-address system blared, its words audible even through the shop window: “Disperse now! Open flame is not allowed on the streets! You do not have a parade permit! Disperse now!”

Someone threw something heavy, and the other window of the gyro place shattered.

Glass rained down on the empty tables in that corner. Noah jerked upright and raced to the back of the tiny restaurant, away from the windows. The cook was shouting in Greek. People left the parade, or joined it from side streets, and began to hurl rocks and bottles at the police. The cops retreated to the walls and doorways across Broadway and took out grenades of tear gas.

On the sidewalk outside, a small child stumbled by, crying and bleeding and terrified.

The person who Noah was now didn't think, didn't hesitate. He ran out into the street, grabbed the child, and ran back into the restaurant. He wasn't quite fast enough to escape the spreading gas. His nose and eyes shrieked in agony, even as he held his breath and thrust the child's head under his jacket.

Into the tiny kitchen, following the fleeing cook and waiter, and out the back door to an alley of overflowing garbage cans. Noah kept running, even though his agonized vision was blurring. Store owners had all locked their doors. But he had outrun the tear gas, and now a woman was leaning out of the window of her second-floor apartment, craning her neck to see through brick walls to the action two streets away. Gunfire sounded. Over its echo off the steel and stone canyons, Noah shouted up, “A child got gassed! Please—throw down a bottle of water!”

She nodded and disappeared. To his surprise, she actually appeared on the street to help a stranger, carrying a water bottle and towel. “I'm a nurse, let me have him . . . aahh.” Expertly she bathed the child's eyes, and then Noah's, just as if a battle wasn't going on within hearing if not within sight.

“Thank you,” Noah gasped. “It was. . . .” He stopped.

Something was happening in his head, and it wasn't due to the sugarcane. He felt an immediate and powerful kinship with this woman. How was that possible? He'd never seen her before. Nor was the attraction romantic—she was in late middle age, with graying hair and a drooping belly. But when she smiled at him and said, “You don't need the ER,” something turned over in Noah's heart. What the fuck?