Nebula Awards Showcase 2003 Read online

  The officer went back to the ship with a bottle of Corath’s healing blood. Captain Vlix agreed to hold the ship in orbit. Rokehut brought his engineers to survey the island and stake out a settlement site on the plateau beyond the lake. Passengers came down with their luggage and crates of freight, ready now to stake their futures on the island and Corath’s promise that the red dust could make fertile soil.

  He decided to stay there with them.

  Sandor took us with him back aboard. Convinced at last, Captain Vlix was waiting to greet us at the airlock, embracing him almost as tearfully as his brother had. When she had finally wiped her eyes and turned away, he spoke to us.

  “Our job now is to fight the pathogen with Corath’s nanorob. Volunteers in flight pods are setting out to carry it to all the nearest worlds. I am taking it to Lo and Tling back on Earth. Do you want to come?”

  We did.

  BETTY BALLANTINE APPRECIATION

  Every so often, SFWA gives a special award to a person who has made an outstanding contribution to the field as a whole. In Kansas City, SFWA honored Betty Ballantine, that gracious lady who, with her late husband Ian Ballantine, changed SF publishing forever. Before the award presentation, a special appreciation was offered by Shelly Shapiro, editorial director of Del Rey Books, who works with such diverse authors as Anne McCaffrey, Arthur C. Clarke, Greg Bear, and the writers of the Star Wars publishing program.

  SHELLY SHAPIRO

  Ballantine Books could hardly let this opportunity go by without saying a few words of appreciation to Betty Ballantine.

  Ian and Betty were some of the first and strongest supporters of science fiction in the book publishing industry. Among their very first hardcovers, back in the early 1950s, were books like The October Country and The Space Merchants. Betty Ballantine edited Ballantine’s SF before bringing Judy-Lynn del Rey aboard, and was behind Ballantine’s early acquisition of such notable luminaries as Arthur C. Clarke, Anne McCaffrey, Larry Niven, James Blish, Katherine Kurtz, and Fred Pohl. Not to mention Tolkien—at one point, Ballantine published the only authorized edition of The Lord of the Rings in the U.S.

  It’s really thanks to Betty and Ian Ballantine that Judy-Lynn and Lester had such a strong backlist foundation on which to build their new imprint. In fact, I think it’s safe to say that without Betty Ballantine, there might not have been a Del Rey Books at all. So, to Betty, a special and heartfelt thank-you from all of us at Del Rey Books and Ballantine Books.

  KELLY LINK

  Kelly Link is a quiet, unassuming woman with a wicked sense of humor. We first met when she attended Clarion, the eminent workshop for aspiring science fiction writers. It was clear to everyone how talented she was but not how quickly she would develop her talent. Less than a decade later, Peter Straub would call her “the most impressive writer of her generation.” A lot goes on behind those quiet brown eyes.

  Kelly’s story “Travels with the Snow Queen” won the Tiptree Award in 1997, and “The Specialist’s Hat” took the 1999 World Fantasy Award. Her first collection, Stranger Things Happen, came out in 2001, to much praise. She coedits the zine Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet. Currently Kelly, who lives in Brooklyn with husband Gavin J. Grant, is working on her first novel.

  “Louise’s Ghost” is a poignant look at the things we cherish, the things we misinterpret, and the things we don’t value enough until it’s too late. It marks Kelly’s first Nebula but not, I suspect, her last.

  LOUISE’S GHOST

  Kelly Link

  Two women and a small child meet in a restaurant. The restaurant is nice—there are windows everywhere. The women have been here before. It’s all that light that makes the food taste so good. The small child—a girl dressed all in green, hairy green sweater, green T-shirt, green corduroys, and dirty sneakers with green-black laces—sniffs. She’s a small child but she has a big nose. She might be smelling the food that people are eating. She might be smelling the warm light that lies on top of everything.

  None of her greens match except of course they are all green.

  “Louise,” one woman says to the other.

  “Louise,” the other woman says.

  They kiss.

  The maitre d’ comes up to them. He says to the first woman, “Louise, how nice to see you. And look at Anna! You’re so big. Last time I saw you, you were so small. This small.” He holds his index finger and his thumb together as if pinching salt. He looks at the other woman.

  Louise says, “This is my friend, Louise. My best friend. Since Girl Scout camp. Louise.”

  The maitre d’ smiles. “Yes, Louise. Of course. How could I forget?”

  •

  Louise sits across from Louise. Anna sits between them. She has a notebook full of green paper and a green crayon. She’s drawing something, only it’s difficult to see what, exactly. Maybe it’s a house.

  Louise says, “Sorry about you-know-who. Teacher’s day. The sitter canceled at the last minute. And I had such a lot to tell you, too! About you know, number eight. Oh boy, I think I’m in love. Well, not in love.”

  She is sitting opposite a window, and all that rich soft light falls on her. She looks creamy with happiness, as if she’s carved out of butter. The light loves Louise, the other Louise thinks. Of course it loves Louise. Who doesn’t?

  •

  This is one thing about Louise. She doesn’t like to sleep alone. She says that her bed is too big. There’s too much space. She needs someone to roll up against, or she just rolls around all night. Some mornings she wakes up on the floor. Mostly she wakes up with other people.

  When Anna was younger, she slept in the same bed as Louise. But now she has her own room, her own bed. Her walls are painted green. Her sheets are green. Green sheets of paper with green drawings are hung up on the wall. There’s a green teddy bear on the green bed and a green duck. She has a green light in a green shade. Louise has been in that room. She helped Louise paint it. She wore sunglasses while she painted. This passion for greenness, Louise thinks, this longing for everything to be a variation on a theme, it might be hereditary.

  This is the second thing about Louise. Louise likes cellists. For about four years, she has been sleeping with a cellist. Not the same cellist. Different cellists. Not all at once, of course. Consecutive cellists. Number eight is Louise’s newest cellist. Numbers one through seven were cellists as well, although Anna’s father was not. That was before the cellists. BC. In any case, according to Louise, cellists generally have low sperm counts.

  Louise meets Louise for lunch every week. They go to nice restaurants. Louise knows all the maitre d’s. Louise tells Louise about the cellists. Cellists are mysterious. Louise hasn’t figured them out yet. It’s something about the way they sit, with their legs open and their arms curled around, all hunched over their cellos. She says they look solid but inviting. Like a door. It opens and you walk in.

  Doors are sexy. Wood is sexy, and bows strung with real hair. Also cellos don’t have spit valves. Louise says that spit valves aren’t sexy.

  Louise is in public relations. She’s a fund-raiser for the symphony—she’s good at what she does. It’s hard to say no to Louise. She takes rich people out to dinner. She knows what kinds of wine they like to drink. She plans charity auctions and masquerades. She brings sponsors to the symphony to sit on stage and watch rehearsals. She takes the cellists home afterwards.

  Louise looks a little bit like a cello herself. She’s brown and curvy and tall. She has a long neck and her shiny hair stays pinned up during the day. Louise thinks that the cellists must take it down at night—Louise’s hair—slowly, happily, gently.

  At camp Louise used to brush Louise’s hair.

  Louise isn’t perfect. Louise would never claim that her friend was perfect. Louise is a bit bowlegged and she has tiny little feet. She wears long, tight silky skirts. Never pants, never anything floral. She has a way of turning her head to look at you, very slowly. It doesn’t matter that she’s bowlegged.<
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  The cellists want to sleep with Louise because she wants them to. The cellists don’t fall in love with her, because Louise doesn’t want them to fall in love with her. Louise always gets what she wants.

  Louise doesn’t know what she wants. Louise doesn’t want to want things.

  Louise and Louise have been friends since Girl Scout camp. How old were they? Too young to be away from home for so long. They were so small that some of their teeth weren’t there yet. They were so young they wet the bed out of homesickness. Loneliness. Louise slept in the bunk bed above Louise. Girl Scout camp smelled like pee. Summer camp is how Louise knows Louise is bowlegged. At summer camp they wore each other’s clothes.

  Here is something else about Louise, a secret. Louise is the only one who knows. Not even the cellists know. Not even Anna.

  Louise is tone-deaf. Louise likes to watch Louise at concerts. She has this way of looking at the musicians. Her eyes get wide and she doesn’t blink. There’s this smile on her face as if she’s being introduced to someone whose name she didn’t quite catch. Louise thinks that’s really why Louise ends up sleeping with them, with the cellists. It’s because she doesn’t know what else they’re good for. Louise hates for things to go to waste.

  •

  A woman comes to their table to take their order. Louise orders the grilled chicken and a house salad and Louise orders salmon with lemon butter. The woman asks Anna what she would like. Anna looks at her mother.

  Louise says, “She’ll eat anything as long as it’s green. Broccoli is good. Peas, lima beans, iceberg lettuce. Lime sherbet. Bread rolls. Mashed potatoes.”

  The woman looks down at Anna. “I’ll see what we can do,” she says.

  Anna says, “Potatoes aren’t green.”

  Louise says, “Wait and see.”

  Louise says, “If I had a kid—”

  Louise says, “But you don’t have a kid.” She doesn’t say this meanly. Louise is never mean, although sometimes she is not kind.

  Louise and Anna glare at each other. They’ve never liked each other. They are polite in front of Louise. It is humiliating, Louise thinks, to hate someone so much younger. The child of a friend. I should feel sorry for her instead. She doesn’t have a father. And soon enough, she’ll grow up. Breasts. Zits. Boys. She’ll see old pictures of herself and be embarrassed. She’s short and she dresses like a Keebler elf. She can’t even read yet!

  Louise says, “In any case, it’s easier than the last thing. When she only ate dog food.”

  Anna says, “When I was a dog—”

  Louise says, hating herself, “You were never a dog.”

  Anna says, “How do you know?”

  Louise says, “I was there when you were born. When your mother was pregnant. I’ve known you since you were this big.” She pinches her fingers together, the way the maitre d’ pinched his, only harder.

  Anna says, “It was before that. When I was a dog.”

  Louise says, “Stop fighting, you two. Louise, when Anna was a dog, that was when you were away. In Paris. Remember?”

  “Right,” Louise says. “When Anna was a dog, I was in Paris.”

  Louise is a travel agent. She organizes package tours for senior citizens. Trips for old women. To Las Vegas, Rome, Belize, cruises to the Caribbean. She travels frequently herself and stays in three-star hotels. She tries to imagine herself as an old woman. What she would want.

  Most of these women’s husbands are in care or dead or living with younger women. The old women sleep two to a room. They like hotels with buffet lunches and saunas, clean pillows that smell good, chocolates on the pillows, firm mattresses. Louise can see herself wanting these things. Sometimes Louise imagines being old, waking up in the mornings, in unfamiliar countries, strange weather, foreign beds. Louise asleep in the bed beside her.

  Last night Louise woke up. It was three in the morning. There was a man lying on the floor beside the bed. He was naked. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, his eyes open, his mouth open, nothing coming out. He was bald. He had no eyelashes, no hair on his arms or legs. He was large, not fat but solid. Yes, he was solid. It was hard to tell how old he was. It was dark, but Louise doesn’t think he was circumcised. “What are you doing here?” she said loudly.

  The man wasn’t there anymore. She turned on the lights. She looked under the bed. She found him in her bathroom, above the bathtub, flattened up against the ceiling, staring down, his hands and feet pressed along the ceiling, his penis drooping down, apparently the only part of him that obeyed the laws of gravity. He seemed smaller now. Deflated. She wasn’t frightened. She was angry.

  “What are you doing?” she said. He didn’t answer. Fine, she thought. She went to the kitchen to get a broom. When she came back, he was gone. She looked under the bed again, but he was really gone this time. She looked in every room, checked to make sure that the front door was locked. It was.

  Her arms creeped. She was freezing. She filled up her hot water bottle and got in bed. She left the light on and fell asleep sitting up. When she woke up in the morning, it might have been a dream, except she was holding the broom.

  •

  The woman brings their food. Anna gets a little dish of peas, Brussels sprouts, and collard greens. Mashed potatoes and bread. The plate is green. Louise takes a vial of green food coloring out of her purse. She adds three drops to the mashed potatoes. “Stir it,” she tells Anna.

  Anna stirs the mashed potatoes until they are a waxy green. Louise mixes more green food coloring into a pat of butter and spreads it on the dinner roll.

  “When I was a dog,” Anna says, “I lived in a house with a swimming pool. And there was a tree in the living room. It grew right through the ceiling. I slept in the tree. But I wasn’t allowed to swim in the pool. I was too hairy.”

  “I have a ghost,” Louise says. She wasn’t sure that she was going to say this. But if Anna can reminisce about her former life as a dog, then surely she, Louise, is allowed to mention her ghost. “I think it’s a ghost. It was in my bedroom.”

  Anna says, “When I was a dog I bit ghosts.”

  Louise says, “Anna, be quiet for a minute. Eat your green food before it gets cold. Louise, what do you mean? I thought you had ladybugs.”

  “That was a while ago,” Louise says. Last month she woke up because people were whispering in the corners of her room. Dead leaves were crawling on her face. The walls of her bedroom were alive. They heaved and dripped red. “What?” she said, and a ladybug walked into her mouth, bitter like soap. The floor crackled when she walked on it, like red cellophane. She opened up her windows. She swept ladybugs out with her broom. She vacuumed them up. More flew in the windows, down the chimney. She moved out for three days. When she came back, the ladybugs were gone—mostly gone—she still finds them tucked into her shoes, in the folds of her underwear, in her cereal bowls and her wineglasses, and between the pages of her books.

  Before that it was moths. Before the moths, a possum. It shat on her bed and hissed at her when she cornered it in the pantry. She called an animal shelter and a man wearing a denim jacket and heavy gloves came and shot it with a tranquilizer dart. The possum sneezed and shut its eyes. The man picked it up by the tail. He posed like that for a moment. Maybe she was supposed to take a picture. Man with possum. She sniffed. He wasn’t married. All she smelled was possum.

  “How did it get in here?” Louise said.

  “How long have you been living here?” the man asked. Boxes of Louise’s dishes and books were still stacked up against the walls of the rooms downstairs. She still hadn’t put the legs on her mother’s dining room table. It lay flat on its back on the floor, amputated.

  “Two months,” Louise said.

  “Well, he’s probably been living here longer than that,” the man from the shelter said. He cradled the possum like a baby. “In the walls or the attic. Maybe in the chimney. Santa claws. Huh.” He laughed at his own joke. “Get it?”

  “Get that
thing out of my house,” Louise said.

  “Your house!” the man said. He held out the possum to her, as if she might want to reconsider. “You know what he thought? He thought this was his house.”

  “It’s my house now,” Louise said.

  •

  Louise says, “A ghost? Louise, it is someone you know? Is your mother okay?”

  “My mother?” Louise says. “It wasn’t my mother. It was a naked man. I’d never seen him before in my life.”

  “How naked?” Anna says. “A little naked or a lot?”

  “None of your beeswax,” Louise says.

  “Was it green?” Anna says.

  “Maybe it was someone that you went out with in high school,” Louise says. “An old lover. Maybe he just killed himself, or was in a horrible car accident. Was he covered in blood? Did he say anything? Maybe he wants to warn you about something.”

  “He didn’t say anything,” Louise says. “And then he vanished. First he got smaller and then he vanished.”

  Louise shivers and then so does Louise. For the first time she feels frightened. The ghost of a naked man was levitating in her bathtub. He could be anywhere. Maybe while she was sleeping, he was floating above her bed. Right above her nose, watching her sleep. She’ll have to sleep with the broom from now on.

  “Maybe he won’t come back,” Louise says, and Louise nods. What if he does? Who can she call? The rude man with the heavy gloves?

  The woman comes to their table again. “Any dessert?” she wants to know. “Coffee?”

  “If you had a ghost,” Louise says, “how would you get rid of it?”

  Louise kicks Louise under the table.

  The woman thinks for a minute. “I’d go see a psychiatrist,” she says. “Get some kind of prescription. Coffee?”