Year's Best SF 2 by David G. Hartwell

Author:David G. Hartwell [Hartwell, David G.]
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: English, Fiction, Sci-fi, Short Story (Sci-fi), Anthology
ISBN: 9780061057465
Publisher: HarperPrism
Published: 1997-04-23T22:00:00+00:00

The rebuke was steady, determined, and very nearly irresistible.

President Perez spoke calmly about war and famine, a desperate United Nations, and the obligations of wealthy people. He named treaties, reciting key passages word-for-word. Then he attacked the very idea of closing the borders, listing the physical difficulties and the economic costs. “Of course it might have worked. We could have survived. An enclave of privilege and waste, and eventually there would have been plagues and a lot of quiet hunger on the outside. We'd be left with our big strong fences, and beyond them…a dead world, spent and useless to us, and to the dead.” A brief pause, then he spoke with a delicate sorrowful voice, asking, “Are you really the kind of man who could live lightly with himself, knowing that billions perished…in part because you deserved a larger dining room…?”

Yancy had never looked so tired. Of those at the table, he seemed to be the one composed of light and illusion.

The President smiled at everyone, then focused on Stefan. “Let's move on, I think. What's your next question?”

The boy tried to read his comppad, but his brain wouldn't work.

“Perhaps you can ask me, ‘What do you think about this hallmark evening?”’

“What do you think?” Stefan muttered.

“It should revolutionize our government, which isn't any surprise. Our government was born from a string of revolutions.” He waited for the boy's eyes, then continued. “I love this nation. If you want me angry, say otherwise. But the truth is that we are diverse and too often divided. My hope is that tonight's revolution will strengthen us. Judging by these events, I'd guess that it will make us at least more honest.”

Yancy gave a low sound. Not an angry sound, not anything.

“Perhaps I should leave.” The President rose to his feet. “I know we've got another half hour scheduled—”

“No, please stay!” Mom blurted.

“Don't go,” begged Candace, reaching for his dreadlocks.

Mom turned on her. At last. “Young lady, I want you out of those clothes—”

“Why?”

“—and drain those breasts. You're not fooling anyone here!”

Candace did her ritual pout, complete with the mournful groan and the teary run to the basement.

Mom apologized to their guest, more than once. Then she told Yancy, “You can help Stefan clear the table, please. I will show our President the rest of my house.”

Stefan worked fast. Scraps went into the recyke system; dishes were loaded in the sonic washer. Through the kitchen window, he saw the Grand Canyon passing into night, its blurry, imperfect edges more appropriate in the ruddy half-light. And it occurred to him that he was happy with this view, even if it wasn't real. Happier than he'd feel on any ordinary plot of real ground, surely.

His stepfather did no work. He just stood in the middle of the room, his face impossible to read.

Stefan left him to set the controls. Mom and the President were in the front room, looking outside. Or at least their eyes were pointed at the lone window. With a soft, vaguely conspiring tone, the President said, “It's not my place to give advice.

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