The best of david brin, p.1
The Best of David Brin, page 1
The Best of David Brin Copyright © 2021 by David Brin. All rights reserved.
* * *
Dust jacket illustration Copyright © 2021 by Patrick Farley. All rights reserved.
* * *
Interior design Copyright © 2021 by Desert Isle Design, LLC.
All rights reserved.
* * *
See here for individual story copyright information.
* * *
Electronic Edition
* * *
ISBN
978-1-64524-010-5
* * *
Subterranean Press
PO Box 190106
Burton, MI 48519
* * *
subterraneanpress.com
* * *
Manufactured in the United States of America
TABLE OF CONTENTS
* * *
Introduction: The Listener by Catherine Asaro
Lift your gaze!
Insistence of Vision
The Crystal Spheres
The Loom of Thessaly
Transition Generation
It’s alive. So be wary.
The Giving Plague
Chrysalis
Dr. Pak’s Preschool
Piecework
Persevere! (Tales of the Coss)
The Logs
The Tumbledowns of Cleopatra Abyss
Things may just get weird.
Detritus Affected
Mars Opposition
Toujours Voir
The River of Time
Light. Let it shine!
The Tell
The Escape
Prevailing…despite everything…
The Postman
A need for Heroes
Thor Meets Captain America
And good news may get…complicated…
Stones of Significance
Reality Check
INTRODUCTION: THE LISTENER
BY CATHERINE ASARO
* * *
The first time I heard David Brin speak came about by accident. It was over twenty years ago, long enough that I don’t remember the con, except that I had a wonderful time. I managed to get a few free moments, so I slipped into a room at random—and stumbled into the most fascinating talk. This guy speaking at the front was funny, engaging, smart, articulate. I had only intended to stop for a minute or two before I went in search of a coffee shop, for that Necessary Nutrient so many of us writers require to exist. Instead I did the unthinkable; I gave up my coffee break to listen to David Brin’s entire talk.
The years blend together, but sometime around that time, David and I were both speakers at another event, along with some other science fiction writers of Greater Fame than my newbie self, such as Nancy Kress. The organizers took us out for lunch, and we had a wonderful time. That laid the foundation for what has been my decades long friendship with David, one full of lively, rapid-fire, sometimes heated but always engrossing discussions that I have greatly valued.
David loves to talk. Oh, can he talk! The discourse never bores. What makes it stand out even more is that he also loves to listen. If challenged on his ideas, afterward he will think about what he hears and may change his mind, a trait so rare, it should be plated in gold. A few years ago he was coming through the Washington DC area, home to many science fiction writers, including myself at the time. He emailed the group of us and asked if we’d like to meet for dinner. Our dinner posse ended up with myself and my daughter, both feminists, a third feminist science fiction writer—and David. Oh yeah, he was outnumbered. What a meal. We went for over an hour with all four of us talking about the portrayal of women and minorities in science fiction, our voices flowing back and forth, over and around one another like waves, the three of us challenging David at every corner and comment.
And he heard us.
Of all the times I’ve had such spirited talks about feminism, I’ve never had the experience of someone who wasn’t already part of the continuing conversation consider with such care what we said. He later contacted me to ask if I would contribute to an anthology he was shopping around, writing a story that dealt with some of the themes we talked about over dinner.
That is quintessential David.
He thinks, considers, ponders. Sometimes he changes his mind, sometimes he doesn’t, but he always gives it careful thought, including all the views he has heard. That attitude reflects in his writing, from the philosophical ideas and literary gems to the sheer, walloping adventure. It also reflects in how he approaches the process of writing. David has a contingent of readers he turns to for critiques before his work goes to publication, indeed before he finishes it. He requests that they tell him what doesn’t work, no holds barred. Anyone who has ever done a creative endeavor, whether it is writing or any other artistic field, knows how difficult it can be to hear negative responses or reviews after we put so much of ourselves into our craft. Yet David actively seeks out extensive criticism on his fragile new creations because he finds that it makes him a better writer. It is no wonder he has amassed such an accomplished body of work.
In Simon and Garfunkle’s classic song, Sounds of Silence, they have a phrase that has stayed with me over the years, when they voice the lament: people hearing without listening.
David listens.
He doesn’t forget a conversation. He may argue until the cows come home, but when the David goes home, he thinks about what he heard. He listens to feminists when we drag him through dinner, dessert, and drinks. He listens to critics when they drag his writing through the ringer. And he acts on what he hears. If he decides he needs to change his approach, he takes that into account as he moves forward, whether it is with his writing, his appearances, or his life. He does it because he believes it makes him a better human being.
But then, he started out as a good person. Perhaps one reason our friendship has survived for over two decades is because under that energetic, outspoken writer lives a gentle being with an abiding human decency.
So sit back, put up your feet, and jump into this book of Brin bests. They will entertain and challenge you, make you laugh or frown, but most of all, they will make you think.
INSISTENCE OF VISION
* * *
She’s pretty-enough. Plump in that I-don’t-give-a-damn kind of way.
And un-blurred. I can see her. That makes all the difference.
“Did you just visit the Dodeco Exhibit?” I ask while she drinks from a public fountain.
Seems a likely guess. Her sleeveless pixelshirt shimmers with geometric shapes that flow and intersect with mani-petaled flowers, shifting red-to-blue and emitting a low audible rhythm to match. She must have image-copied one of the theme works on display in the museum, just up a nearby flight of granite steps, where I glimpse crowds of folks—both blurred and visible—visiting the exhibition.
Wiping her mouth with the back of one hand, she glances up-down across my face, making a visible choice. Answering with a faint smile.
“Yeah, the deGornays are farky-impressive. A breakthrough in fractalart.”
Gazing at me without suspicion, she’s bare-eyed—a pair of simple digi-spectacles hang unused from her neck. The aiware looks kinda retro, like granny glasses—clear augment-lenses glinting in sunlight, here at the edge of Freedom Park. But the key feature is this.
She’s not wearing them. Not at the moment. I have a chance.
“There’s nobody better’n deGornay,” I counter, trying the match the with-it tone of her subgeneration. Navigating with a few tooth clicks and blink commands, I’ve already used my own specs to sift-search, grabbing a conversational tip about neomod art.
“But I really like Tasselhoff. She’s farknotic.”
“You-say?” The girl notches an eyebrow, perhaps suspecting my use of a spec-prompt. After all, we’re unevenly-augmented at the moment. I worry she’s about to lift her own pair…but no. She continues to stare-bare, cocking her head in mock defiance.
“You do realize Tasselhoff cheats? She ai-tunes the cadence of her artwork to sync with the viewer’s neural wave! Some say it’s not even legal.”
Gosh. Bright, educated and passionately opinionated. I am drawn, partly by the danger.
Several blurs pass nearby, then a visible couple. The man, garbed in penguinlike attire, sidles in to use the drinking fountain. So many people—it gives me an idea.
“I agree about the neural cheat, but Tasselhoff does offer a unique…say, it’s awful crowded here. Are you walking somewhere? I was strolling by the park.”
Ambiguous. Whichever way she’s heading, that’s my direction too.
Brief hesitation. Her hand touches the granny-glasses. I keep smiling. Please don’t. Please don’t.
The hand drops. Eyes remain uncovered, bare-brave, open to the world and just the world.
She nods. “Sure. I can take the long way. I’m Jayann.”
“Sigismund,” I answer. We shake in the new, quasi-roman fashion, more sanitary, hands not contacting hands but lightly squeezing each others’ wrists.
“Sigismund. Really?”
“Cannot tell a lie.” I laugh and so does she, unaware how literal I’m being.
I can’t lie. Or rather, I can. But it’s not allowed.
She doesn’t notice what happens next, but I do. As we both turn to leave the Museum steps, I glimpse the penguin-garbed man staring at me through his pair of augmented reality specs. He frowns. Appears to mumble something…
…before he and his wife abruptly van
Walking together now, Jayann and I are chatting and flirting amiably. Our path skirts the edge of Freedom Park. Babbling inanely about trends in art, we stay to the right as joggers pound along, most of them visible but some blurred. Just vague clouds of color—Collision-Avoidance Yellow—that even my damned-limited specs can see. I hear them all, of course—barefoot or shod, blurred or unblurred—pounding along the trail, panting like their ancestors, hunting across primeval savannah.
I offer a comparison of deGornay to Kavanaugh, deliberately naive, so she’ll lecture for a while as we skirt a realm of leafy lanes. Specs don’t work in there. No augmentations at all. That’s why it’s Freedom Park. Few would expect to find a cursed creature like me right here at the edge of what—for me—is dangerous ground. And that’s why I come.
To my left the nearby street and city roar with stimulus, both real and virtual, every building overlaid with meta-data or uber-info. I can fine-tune my specs to an extent. Omit adverts, for example. Though my tools are limited, even primitive. And half the buildings are just solid blocks of prison gray to me.
My walls.
No matter, I’m concentrating on what Jayann says. Actually, it’s very interesting! Her art-enthusiasm is catching. Even a bit endearing. Mostly listening, I only have to comment now and then.
Soon, I hear piping voices and glance back, stepping aside for a cluster of maybe twenty child-sized blurs—little clouds of chatter, giggles and gossip, pitter-pattering along the gravel. Shepherded by two adults—one of them a clot of vagueness, the other unedited and brave. Visible as a lanky-dark young man—my specs even reveal an ID-tag—his name and public profile.
Wow. Just like in better times, before the change. Before I lost the power that everyone around me takes for granted.
Godlike omniscience.
“Well, I have get back to work,” Jayann says. “I’ll shortcut through here.” She indicates a tree-lined path, clearly inviting me to come along.
“What do you do?” I ask, diverting the subject, I take two steps, following her. Already there’s a drop in spec resolution. I daren’t go much farther.
“I work in sales. But studying art history so I can teach. You?”
“Used to teach. Now I help a public service agency.”
“Volunteer work? That’s farky and sweet.” She smiles. Though backing down the path, she’s starting to grow fuzzy. I’d better talk fast.
“But I manage to come here—to the park and Museum—every Tuesday, same time, like clockwork.”
And there it is. Totally lame and stunningly old-fashioned, but maybe that will intrigue her.
It even seems so! She grins.
“Okay, Mister Mysterious Sigismund. Maybe I’ll bump into you again, some Tuesday.”
I sigh inwardly. It’s all I could hope for. A chance.
Then hope crashes. She grabs her specs.
“Wait. Just to be sure, let me drop-filters and give you my—”
“Say, is that a bed of gladiolas? This early?” I ask, purposely stepping past Jayann, walking down the path, counting steps and memorizing it as best I can. The Park’s e-interference grows more intense. Then, abruptly, my specs cut off completely. I’m blind. But it’s worth it if she follows. If that prevents her from looking at me through augmented reality.
I keep walking, several more paces, toward the memorized flower bed. Bending over, I take off the now-useless aiware, pretending to look. Without specs, I’m even more blind—not even static, just blackness. But I chatter on, as if able to see bare-eyed, hoping she followed me down here, where specs don’t work.
“You know, they remind me of that deGornay—”
“Bastard!”
A pair of fists hammer my back, then a hard-driven foot slams into my knee from behind, sending me tumbling, crashing into the shrubbery. Pain mixes with humiliated disappointment. And even worse…
…my specs are gone! I grope for them.
“How dare you!” She continues screaming. “You…you liar!”
My left hand probes among the crumpled flowers, searching.
“I… I never lied, Jayann.”
“What were you planning? To get all my info, my address, to break in and murder me?”
“My crimes weren’t violent. Look them up. Please, Jayann…”
“Don’t you dare speak my name! What are you doing?”
“My specs. Please help me find them. Without them…”
“You mean these?” A rustling sound. Turning toward it.
“I can’t see without them.”
“So I’ve heard,” her voice drips with irony and anger. “Instead of prison, take convicts and blind them. Let ’em only see what special specs deliver to the brain. No possible victims, or children, or anyone who chooses not to let a criminal watch them.”
“Yes, but—”
“You stole from me that right!”
Against better judgment, I argue.
“You could have looked…with specs…seen my warning marks…”
She howls incoherent fury and I know it was not wise to argue. I may not have lied, but I did divert attention. Used flirtation and charm. Acted like a regular man. I envision her there on the path, clutching my specs, shaking them. “I ought to smash these!”
“Please give them to me, Jayann…and guide me back to the street. I’ll never bother you again, I swear…”
Probably, she’s a fine person, under normal circumstances. I try to sympathize with her sense of betrayal. But the rage that pummels into me seems extreme, for a social offense…charming a young woman into talking to me, bare-eyed, for a while. Mea culpa, I would pay for it. But did I deserve a pounding with fists? Her demeaning shouts?
A crunching sound. My specs, getting smashed. And God knows what’s next.
Making a best-guess, I run. Gravel stays underfoot for eight good steps, then gives way to grass, so I correct, meeting path again…
…before tripping over someone’s outstretched leg and sprawling face-first. My chin stings and I spit dust. “Jayann… I’m sorry!”
“Not half as sorry as you’re—”
I leap up, stagger forward again. There was a gentle slope down from the street, I recall. And now I hear the panting of joggers. Traffic sounds beyond. With that bearing, I run again.
No more hope of getting my specs back or reporting for work. My sole thought is to reach the sidewalk…then just sit down at the curb, pathetic and still. A harmless blind man. Word will reach my probation officer. Ellie will come get me. Lecture me. Berate me. Possibly impose punishment. Though it’s all recorded and I swear, I don’t think I committed any actual—
Traffic noise is louder. Joggers curse as they weave around me. How I wish I could see even blurs.
Someone plants a hand against my back and shoves. Stumbling off an unseen curb, I hear brakes squeal. Then deeper darkness falls.
Eventually, all kinds of pain grow dull. Lying in a hospital bed, still blind while docs rewire some new prison spectacles around skull damage, I listen as Ellie explains about how lucky I am. What a fool I was. How close I came to breaking several rules and lengthening my sentence. To losing my life.
“I know. People over-react when they spec you’re a felon. Too many blur themselves automatically. You feel like a pariah. So, would you prefer some awful prison cell? The savagery of prison life? At least now you can work. Pay taxes. Live among us.”
That makes me laugh, rattling several broken bones.
“Among you. Right. Among the blurs.”
She lets that bitter comment sit a while, then asks.
“Why, with so little time left on your sentence…why take such chances?”
How to answer, except with a shrug. Was Robinson Crusoe ever lonelier than I feel, here in the big city, imprisoned by electronic disdain?
