Jonathan Strahan - The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year. Volume 10

No, the lady wasn’t loved, but that didn’t stop people from building temples in her honor.

Her rational mind was the largest force among many, but the public talked about her magic for saving lives that she had never noticed.

Her stoic personality never failed. Early on, she told her core group that she was an agent in a very mysterious game. Aliens, machines, or demons from some unmapped dimension: Explanations were numerous and useless and why bother? But she accepted that she was too old to benefit from the new elixirs, and even if she lived a million years, she was still human. In other words, she was going to run out of good advice.

“Ten or twelve years from now,” she guessed.

She was wrong by a factor of two.

A very good guess, in other words.

On an ordinary Wednesday, she published a small blog about the desperate need for rain in northern Mexico. It was one of the little gifts that she gave to single places, and she didn’t expect instantaneous results. But that same day, in Capetown, a half Zulu and half Boer fellow published plans for a machine that would suck carbon dioxide out of the atmosphere – a simple and quick device powered by sunlight and the earth’s heat.

His machine was authentic.

Her rain never fell.

She retired, but not without some difficulties. Within a week, this woman who cared nothing for pomp and spectacle had little to fill her time, and perhaps that’s why she ended up in a serious depression. Returning to her old house, she drank. She slept too much. And then she didn’t sleep at all, weeping for no reason.

The tumor was discovered three months after she became an ordinary citizen.

Surgery was a possibility, but with the likelihood of significant brain damage. She refused. Radiation and various forms of chemo would be stopgaps, prolonging life by weeks at most. She considered and decided otherwise. On their own initiative, three of her original team flew to Capetown, attempting to meet with the new emperor. Their plan was to argue for a special blog, perhaps a call for a new cancer-fighting agent. The right words written in the proper order, not unlike a magical chant, might lead researchers to find a miracle hiding inside some little tropical plant. But the emperor refused to see them, much less consider their request. And hearing about the trip and the verdict, Adrianne sighed, saying, “Wisdom and kindness. They’re not the same word spelled with different letters.”

There was still money in the coffers.

Doctors and cooks and maids and more doctors arrived and then left the house again, following complicated schedules.

And the original seven disciples took up residence in the nearby houses, complete with spouses and kids and at least one mistress.

Adrianne left her doors unlocked.

Her balance wasn’t worth trusting anymore, and she hated the chore of seeing who was calling.

One day, a boy from another neighborhood invited himself inside that famous house. He was curious what brain cancer looked like. It looked like an ordinary old lady sitting before a small desk, watching a thousand solar panels opening like giant flowers on someone’s desert. It looked like a dull thing to watch, and he said so.

The woman turned slowly, looking at him and then looking back at the monitor.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Sitting,” she said. And she began to laugh, one hand touching the back of her skull. He thought she was strange and left.

She didn’t notice her solitude.

Then another boy said, “You should lock your doors.”

Adrianne turned to discover what she assumed was the first boy. Except he had grown up in the last few moments. Grown up and grown heavy too, and his hair had left him and then come back again. The new hair was paler and thicker than natural, which was common with these treatments.

Thirty years had passed in an instant.

This was a very interesting disease, she thought.

But no, that face wasn’t the same face, even with the added decades. She almost remembered the face and its name. But then with a hurt tone, the new visitor said, “I’m your son. I’ve come to see you.”

That seemed enough reason to stand.

The legs proved strong, at least for the moment.

“I heard the news,” her son said.

“There’s always news,” she said. “What are you talking about?”

“Your health,” he said.

“Is there something I don’t know?”

“Oh, Mother.” The man blinked, shrinking down a bit.

“You mean this growth.” She tapped her head and laughed again. Twice in one day. She was practically a giddy little girl. “Yes, it’s going to kill me. But probably not today.”

The conversation stopped altogether.

Casting for words, she fell into clichés. “How is your life, son?”

“Well,” he said, happy for the prodding. “I’m doing well. Sober three years, and very rich.”

“Are you?”

“Exceptionally rich, thanks to you.”

“Sober, I meant.”

But the man with the fresh hair didn’t want to dwell on old weaknesses. “It’s amazing what people give you, particularly when they learn that your mother controls the world and everyone on it.”

Honest thoughts came to Adrianne.

She worked hard, and her mouth remained closed.

The man was wearing both fine clothes and a smug smile, and he was watching her. But his thoughts were on the move. Feeling strong enough, he stopped smiling. “This is where he killed himself. Isn’t it?”

She said nothing.

He looked at the ceiling. Then he stepped past her, touching the desk. The earlier desk was gone, too big and too bloody for the room that she had wanted. Maybe he didn’t remember the original furniture. She refused to clear up these matters. What she wanted was to be left alone...

But this was her only child.

Mindless, uncaring pressure on neurons. Pressure bringing emotion. Is that where this sudden trickle of tears was coming from?

Her son didn’t notice.

Again, the smug, rich-man’s smile.

“I was sorry when you lost the job,” he confessed.

“Were you?”

“But it’s all right,” he said. “Our relationship is still valuable.”

“Is it?” she asked, wiping one wet eye.

“You often talk to our overlords,” he said.

“I don’t,” she said.

“But they don’t know that. And I’m very convincing.”

She approached the office door. Wanting something. To send him away, or flee for herself?

The awful man kept talking.

“In fact, I’ll sometimes claim that I can talk to them too. The powers in charge. Not so much that I have to prove anything. But you know, it’s crazy what smart people believe, if you give them any excuse.”

She gasped.

Her son blinked, straightening his back.

“Help me,” she said. “Would you do me one enormous favor?”

He nodded.

“Wait,” she said.

Waiting was an easy favor, easily accomplished.

She returned with the handgun and bullets, and his first reaction was to warn, “Guns are illegal now. You made it so.”

“I did,” she agreed. “Maybe somebody should arrest me.”

He watched her load one chamber.

“Now,” she said. “Kill me.”

“What?”

“That’s the favor. I’m sick. I’m going to get sicker and die horribly. But according to euthanasia laws – my wise laws – I can implore another person to end my suffering by whatever means I want.”

“Mother...!”

“And I don’t want to do the chore myself. So if you would.” She shoved the gun into his hands, aiming the barrel at her chest. Then, as if having second thoughts, she said, “No, wait. Let me sit, and we can catch the bullet and the spray with pillows. I’ll get my pillows out of the bedroom.”