Iterations and other stories (collection)

Last and most enduringly, this book shows Rob’s love of Earth’s distant past: dinosaurs, early hominids, and paleontologists pop up over and over again, sometimes as protagonists, sometimes in disguise as aliens, sometimes in even more surprising forms… but always depicted with affection and a detailed attention to scientific accuracy. These are not trendy stage props thrown in for their current Coolness Factor—they matter to Rob, and he makes them matter to us.

Enough preamble. I could go on to enthuse about what a fine human being Rob is, or what important contributions he’s made to Canadian science fiction and to the science-fiction community as a whole; perhaps I could come up with a few telling anecdotes about the guy (or at least some juicy embarrassing ones); I could even rustle up praise and testimonials from dozens of other writers who are glad to have Rob Sawyer as their friend; but if you have any sense, you aren’t interested in blather, you just want to read some good stories.

Lucky you. This book is full of them. Enjoy!

—James Alan Gardner

James Alan Gardner is a Nebula and Hugo Award finalist whose short stories have appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine and The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. His novels include Expendable, Vigilant, Hunted, and Ascending.

The Hand You’re Dealt

Finalist for the Hugo Award for Best Short Story of the Year

Winner of the Science Fiction Chronicle Reader Award for Best Short Story of the Year

Author’s Introduction

Edward E. Kramer is one of my favorite editors; he always asks me for something challenging. But when he approached me to contribute to a libertarian science-fiction anthology he was co-editing with Brad Linaweaver, I said, Ed, baby, I’m a Canadian—I don’t think it’s technically possible to be both a Canadian and a libertarian. As he always does, Ed said a few magic words: “Well, you could write a story that shows potential problems with libertarianism—we’re looking for a balanced book.” And, lo and behold, “The Hand You’re Dealt” was created.

* * *

And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.

—John 8:32

“Got a new case for you,” said my boss, Raymond Chen. “Homicide.”

My heart started pounding. Mendelia habitat is supposed to be a utopia. Murder is almost unheard of here.

Chen was fat—never exercised, loved rich foods. He knew his lifestyle would take decades off his life, but, hey, that was his choice. “Somebody offed a soothsayer, over in Wheel Four,” he said, wheezing slightly. “Baranski’s on the scene now.”

My eyebrows went up. A dead soothsayer? This could be very interesting indeed.

I took my pocket forensic scanner and exited The Cop Shop. That was its real name—no taxes in Mendelia, after all. You needed a cop, you hired one. In this case, Chen had said, we were being paid by the Soothsayers’ Guild. That meant we could run up as big a bill as necessary—the SG was stinking rich. One of the few laws in Mendelia was that everyone had to use soothsayers.

Mendelia consisted of five modules, each looking like a wagon wheel with spokes leading in to a central hub. The hubs were all joined together by a long axle, and separate travel tubes connected the outer edges of the wheels. The whole thing spun to simulate gravity out at the rims, and the travel tubes saved you having to go down to the zero-g of the axle to move from one wheel to the next.

The Cop Shop was in Wheel Two. All the wheel rims were hollow, with buildings growing up toward the axle from the outer interior wall. Plenty of open spaces in Mendelia—it wouldn’t be much of a utopia without those. But our sky was a hologram, projected on the convex inner wall of the rim, above our heads. The Cop Shop’s entrance was right by Wheel Two’s transit loop, a series of maglev tracks along which robo-cabs ran. I hailed one, flashed my debit card at an unblinking eye, and the cab headed out. The Carling family, who owned the taxi concession, was one of the oldest and richest families in Mendelia.

The ride took fifteen minutes. Suzanne Baranski was waiting outside for me. She was a good cop, but too green to handle a homicide alone. Still, she’d get a big cut of the fee for being the original responding officer—after all, the cop who responds to a call never knows who, if anyone, is going to pick up the tab. When there is money to be had, first-responders get a disproportionate share.