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//-->Robert ReedGUEST OF HONORRobert Reed sold his first story in 1986, and quickly established himself as a frequent contributor to TheMagazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction and Asimov's Science Fiction, as well as selling many stories toScience Fiction Age, Universe, New Destinies, Tomorrow, Synergy, Starlight, and elsewhere.Reed may be one of the most prolific of today's young writers, particularly at short-fiction lengths,seriously rivaled for that position only by authors such as Stephen Baxter and Brian Stableford. And—also like Baxter and Stableford— he manages to keep up a very high standard of quality while beingprolific, something that is not at all easy to do. Almost every year throughout the mid-to-late nineties, hehas produced at least two or three stories that would be good enough to get him into a Best of the Yearanthology under ordinary circumstances, and some years he has produced four or five of them, and sooften the choice is not whether or not to use a Reed story, but rather which Reed story to use— aremarkable accomplishment. Reed stories such as "The Utility Man," "Birth Day," "Blind," "A Place WithShade," "The Toad of Heaven," "Stride," "The Shape of Everything," "Guest of Honor," "Decency,""Waging Good," and "Killing the Morrow," among at least a half-dozen others equally as strong, count asamong some of the best short work produced by anyone in the eighties and nineties. Nor is henon-prolific as a novelist, having turned out eight novels since the end of the eighties, including TheLeeshore, The Hormone Jungle, Black Milk, The Remarkables, Down the Bright Way, Beyond the Veilof Stars, An Exaltation of Larks, and, most recently, Beneath the Gated Sky.In spite of this large and remarkable body of work, though, Reed remains largely ignored and overlookedwhen the talk turns to the hot new writers of the nineties, and only recently is he beginning to get on tomajor award ballots with stories like "Chrysalis," which is on the final Nebula ballot as I type thesewords. Like Walter Jon Williams and Bruce Sterling, no one Robert Reed story is ever much like anotherRobert Reed story in tone or subject matter, and it may be that this versatility counts against him as far asbuilding a reputation is concerned. John Clute, in The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction, noting that noneof Reed's novels "share any background material or assumptions whatsoever," suggests that "today's sfreaders tend to expect a kind of brand identity from authors, and it may be for this reason that Reed hasnot yet achieved any considerable fame."It seems unfair that the range of an artist's palette should count against him— but Reed's name is slowlypercolating into the public awareness here at the end of the nineties, and I suspect that he will becomeone of the big names of the first decade of the new century coming up on the horizon.Much of Reed's output takes him beyond our purview here, into fantasy, horror, and other types ofscience fiction (including some stuff strongly reminiscent of Galaxy-era social satire), but a great deal ofhis output is strongly centered within the traditions of the Space Adventure. In fact, like some other youngwriters of the nineties, including Paul J. McAuley and Stephen Baxter, Reed is producing some of themost inventive and colorful of Modern Space Opera, stuff set on a scale so grand and played out acrosssuch immense vistas of time that it makes the "Superscience" stuff of the thirties look pale andconservative by comparison: his sequence of novellas for Asimov's, for instance, "Sister Alice," "BrotherPerfect," and "Mother Death," detailing internecine warfare and intricate political intrigues betweenfamilies of Immortals with powers and abilities so immense that they are for all intents and purposes gods,or the sequence of stories unfolding in F&SF, Science Fiction Age, and Asimov's, including "TheRemoras," "Aeon's Child," and "Marrow," involving the journeyings of an immense spaceship the size ofJupiter, staffed by dozens of exotic alien races, that is engaged in a multimillion-year circumnavigation ofthe galaxy.And in the poignant and haunting story that follows, he shows us that while being the guest of honor at animportant and high-powered function is usually a position to be desired, in Reed's decadent future worldof ultrarich immortals, it's an honor you might be well advised to avoid— if you can.Reed lives in Lincoln, Nebraska, where he's at work on a novel-length version of his 1997 novella,"Marrow."One of the robots offered to carry Pico for the last hundred meters, on its back or cradled in its paddedarms; but she shook her head emphatically, telling it, "Thank you, no. I can make it myself." The groundwas grassy and soft, lit by glowglobes and the grass-colored moon. It wasn't a difficult walk, even withher bad hip, and she wasn't an invalid. She could manage, she thought with an instinctive independence.And as if to show them, she struck out ahead of the half-dozen robots as they unloaded the big skimmer,stacking Pico's gifts in their long arms. She was halfway across the paddock before they caught her. Bythen she could hear the muddled voices and laughter coming from the hill-like tent straight ahead. By thenshe was breathing fast for reasons other than her pain. For fear, mostly. But it was a different flavor offear than the kinds she knew. What was happening now was beyond her control, and inevitable ... and itwas that kind of certainty that made her stop after a few more steps, one hand rubbing at her hip for noreason except to delay her arrival. If only for a moment or two ..."Are you all right?" asked one robot.She was gazing up at the tent, dark and smooth and gently rounded. "I don't want to be here," sheadmitted. "That's all." Her life on board the Kyber had been spent with robots— they had outnumberedthe human crew ten to one, then more— and she could always be ruthlessly honest with them. "This ismadness. I want to leave again.""Only, you can't," responded the ceramic creature. The voice was mild, unnervingly patient. "You havenothing to worry about.""I know.""The technology has been perfected since—""I know."It stopped speaking, adjusting its hold on the colorful packages."That's not what I meant," she admitted. Then she breathed deeply, holding the breath for a moment andexhaling, saying, "All right. Let's go. Go."The robot pivoted and strode toward the giant tent. The leading robots triggered the doorway, causing itto fold upward with a sudden rush of golden light flooding across the grass, Pico squinting and thenblinking, walking faster now and allowing herself the occasional low moan."Ever wonder how it'll feel?" Tyson had asked her.***The tent had been pitched over a small pond, probably that very day, and in places the soft, thick grasseshad been matted flat by people and their robots. So many people, she thought. Pico tried not to look atany faces. For a moment, she gazed at the pond, shallow and richly green, noticing the tamed waterfowlsprinkled over it and along its shoreline. Ducks and geese, she realized. And some small, crimson-headedcranes. Lifting her eyes, she noticed the large, omega-shaped table near the far wall. She couldn't countthe place settings, but it seemed a fair assumption there were sixty-three of them. Plus a single roundtable and chair in the middle of the omegao— my table— and she took another deep breath, lookinghigher, noticing floating glowglobes and several indigo swallows flying around them, presuambly snatchingup the insects that were drawn to the yellow-white light.People were approaching. Since she had entered, in one patient rush, all sixty-three people had beenclimbing the slope while shouting, "Pico! Hello!" Their voices mixed together, forming a noisy, senselesspaste. "Greetings!" they seemed to say. "Hello, hello!"They were brightly dressed, flowing robes swishing and everyone wearing big-rimmed hats made toresemble titanic flowers. The people sharply contrasted with the gray-white shells of the robot servants.Those hats were a new fashion, Pico realized. One of the little changes made during these past decades... and finally she made herself look at the faces themselves, offering a forced smile and taking a stepbackward, her belly aching, but her hip healed. The burst of adrenaline hid the deep ache in her bones.Wrestling one of her hands into a wave, she told her audience, "Hello," with a near-whisper. Then sheswallowed and said, "Greetings to you!" Was that her voice? She very nearly didn't recognize it.A woman broke away from the others, almost running toward her. Her big, flowery hat began to workfree, and she grabbed the fat, petalish brim and began to fan herself with one hand, the other handtouching Pico on the shoulder. The palm was damp and quite warm; the air suddenly stank of overlysweet perfumes. It was all Pico could manage not to cough. The woman— what was her name?— wasasking, "Do you need to sit? We heard ... about your accident. You poor girl. All the way fine, and thenon the last world. Of all the luck!"Her hip. The woman was jabbering about her sick hip.Pico nodded and confessed, "Sitting would be nice, yes."A dozen voices shouted commands. Robots broke into runs, racing one another around the pond to grabthe chair beside the little table. The drama seemed to make people laugh. A nervous, self-consciouslaugh. When the lead robot reached the chair and started back, there was applause. Another womanshouted, "Mine won! Mine won!" She threw her hat into the air and tried to follow it, leaping as high aspossible.Some man cursed her sharply, then giggled.Another man forced his way ahead, emerging from the packed bodies in front of Pico. He was smiling ina strange fashion. Drunk or drugged ... what was permissible these days? With a sloppy, earnest voice,he asked, "How'd it happen? The hip thing ... how'd you do it?"He should know. She had dutifully filed her reports throughout the mission, squirting them home. Hadn'the seen them? But then she noticed the watchful, excited faces— no exceptions— and someone seemedto read her thoughts, explaining, "We'd love to hear it firsthand. Tell, tell, tell!"As if they needed to hear a word, she thought, suddenly feeling quite cold.Her audience grew silent. The robot arrived with the promised chair, and she sat and stretched her badleg out in front of her, working to focus her mind. It was touching, their silence ... reverent and almostchildlike ... and she began by telling them how she had tried climbing Miriam Prime with two other crewmembers. Miriam Prime was the tallest volcano on a super-Venusian world; it was brutal work becauseof the terrain and their massive lifesuits, cumbersome refrigeration units strapped to their backs, and theatmosphere thick as water. Scalding and acidic. Carbon dioxide and water made for a doublegreenhouse effect.... And she shuddered, partly for dramatics and partly from the memory. Then shesaid, "Brutal," once again, shaking her head thoughtfully.They had used hyperthreads to climb the steepest slopes and the cliffs. Normally hyperthreads werevirtually unbreakable; but Miriam was not a normal world. She described the basalt cliff and the awfulinstant of the tragedy; the clarity of the scene startled her. She could feel the heat seeping into her suit,see the dense, dark air, and her arms and legs shook with exhaustion. She told sixty-three people how itfelt to be suspended on an invisible thread, two friends and a winch somewhere above in the acidic fog.The winch had jammed without warning, she told; the worst bad luck made it jam where the thread wasits weakest. This was near the mission's end, and all the equipment was tired. Several dozen alien worldshad been visited, many mapped for the first time, and every one of them examined up close. As planned."Everything has its limits," she told them, her voice having an ominous quality that she hadn't intended.Even hyperthreads had limits. Pico was dangling, talking to her companions by radio; and just as the jamwas cleared, a voice saying, "There ... got it!", the thread parted. He didn't have any way to know it hadparted. Pico was falling, gaining velocity, and the poor man was ignorantly telling her, "It's running strong.You'll be up in no time, no problem...."People muttered to themselves."Oh my," they said."Gosh.""Shit."Their excitement was obvious, perhaps even overdone. Pico almost laughed, thinking they were makingfun of her storytelling ... thinking, What do they know about such things? ... Only, they were sincere, sherealized a moment later. They were enraptured with the image of Pico's long fall, her spinning and lashingout with both hands, fighting to grab anything and slow her fall any way possible—— and she struck a narrow shelf of eroded stone, the one leg shattered and telescoping down to agruesome stump. Pico remembered the painless shock of the impact and that glorious instant free of allsensation. She was alive, and the realization had made her giddy. Joyous. Then the pain found herhead— a great nauseating wave of pain— and she heard her distant friends shouting, "Pico? Are youthere? Can you hear us? Oh, Pico ... Pico? Answer us!"She had to remain absolutely motionless, sensing that any move would send her tumbling again. Sheanswered in a whisper, telling her friends that she was alive, yes, and please, please hurry. But they hadonly a partial thread left, and it would take them more than half an hour to descend ... and she spoke ofher agony and the horror, her hip and leg screaming, and not just from the impact. It was worse thanmere broken bone, the lifesuit's insulation damaged and the heat bleeding inward, slowly and thoroughlycooking her living flesh.Pico paused, gazing out at the round-mouthed faces.So many people and not a breath of sound; and she was having fun. She realized her pleasure almost toolate, nearly missing it. Then she told them, "I nearly died," and shrugged her shoulders. "All the distancestraveled, every imaginable adventure ... and I nearly died on one of our last worlds, doing an ordinaryclimb...."Let them appreciate her luck, she decided. Their luck.Then another woman lifted her purple flowery hat with both hands, pressing it flush against her own chest."Of course you survived!" she proclaimed. "You wanted to come home, Pico! You couldn't stand thethought of dying."Pico nodded without comment, then said, "I was rescued. Obviously." She flexed the damaged leg,saying, "I never really healed," and she touched her hip with reverence, admitting, "We didn't have theresources on board the Kyber. This was the best our medical units could do."Her mood shifted again, without warning. Suddenly she felt sad to tears, eyes dropping and her mouthclamped shut."We worried about you, Pico!""All the time, dear!""... in our prayers ... !"Voices pulled upon each other, competing to be heard. The faces were smiling and thoroughly sincere.Handsome people, she was thinking. Clean and civilized and older than her by centuries. Some of themwere more than a thousand years old.Look at them! she told herself.And now she felt fear. Pulling both legs toward her chest, she hugged herself, weeping hard enough todampen her trouser legs; and her audience said, "But you made it, Pico! You came home! The wondersyou've seen, the places you've actually touched ... with those hands.... And we're so proud of you! Soproud! You've proven your worth a thousand times, Pico! You're made of the very best stuff—!"— which brought laughter, a great clattering roar of laughter, the joke obviously and apparently tireless.Even after so long.***They were Pico; Pico was they.Centuries ago, during the Blossoming, technologies had raced forward at an unprecedented rate.Starships like the Kyber and a functional immortality had allowed the first missions to the distant worlds,and there were some grand adventures. Yet adventure requires some element of danger; exploration hasnever been a safe enterprise. Despite precautions, there were casualties. People who had lived forcenturies died suddenly, oftentimes in stupid accidents; and it was no wonder that after the first wave ofmissions came a long moratorium. No new starships were built, and no sensible person would haveridden inside even the safest vessel. Why risk yourself? Whatever the benefits, why taunt extinction whenyou have a choice.Only recently had a solution been invented. Maybe it was prompted by the call of deep space, thoughTyson used to claim, "It's the boredom on Earth that inspired them. That's why they came up with theirelaborate scheme."The near-immortals devised ways of making highly gifted, highly trained crews from themselves. Withcomputers and genetic engineering, groups of people could pool their qualities and create compilationhumans. Sixty-three individuals had each donated moneys and their own natures, and Pico was the result.She was a grand and sophisticated average of the group. Her face was a blending of every face; herbody was a feminine approximation of their own varied bodies. In a few instances, the engineers hadplanted synthetic genes— for speed and strength, for example— and her brain had a subtly differentarchitecture. Yet basically Pico was their offspring, a stewlike clone. The second of two clones, she
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