Asimov's SF, December 2011 Read online

  Byron's own unaltered journal, when eventually published, showed that the statements in Hawkesworth's edited version were rather more vivid than the case merited. Byron had spoken of the Patagonian chief as “one of the most extraordinary men for size I had ever seen,” found the average height of the people remarkable, and reported that he “never was more astonished to see such a set of people.” But nowhere did he use the word “giant” or “monster,” and he made no estimates of their stature. And Charles Darwin, visiting Patagonia in 1834 during his five-year round-the-world voyage of scientific research aboard H.M.S. Beagle, provided the final blow to the old Pigafetta-Sarmiento-Knyvet tale: “We had an interview . . . with the famous so-called gigantic Patagonians, who gave us a cordial reception. Their height appears much greater than it really is, from their large guanaco mantles, their long flowing hair, and general figure: on an average their height is about six feet, with some men taller and only a few shorter; and the women are also tall; altogether they are certainly the tallest race we anywhere saw.” Taller than most Europeans, at any rate, but scarcely worthy of inclusion in any Mandevillean book of wonders. Nor has anyone seen giants in Patagonia ever since. In 1879, the explorer Ramon Lista studied a tribe of two or three thousand people known as the Tehuelches, and found the average height of their men to be six feet two, certainly impressive enough. But the Teheuelches were largely wiped out a year later in an Argentinian military raid following an uprising, and few inhabitants of Patagonia today are above the current human norms of size.

  What was it all about, then?

  To the voyagers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when the average height of an adult European male was just over five feet, the Patagonians surely must have looked very large, as, to any child, all adults seem colossal. Then, too, an element of understandable human exaggeration must have entered these accounts of men who had traveled so far and endured so much, and the natural wish not to be outdone by one's predecessors helped to produce these repeated fantasies of Goliaths ten feet tall or even more. And in Commodore Byron's time the British Admiralty may well have had political motives for encouraging the French to focus on fantastic tales of giants instead of examining what these British mariners might really have been up to in the South Seas. So the Patagonian giants appear to have been the product of awe, poor judgment of heights, and, to some extent, deliberate fabrication.

  Too bad. I'm looking right now at that 1767 plate of the tiny Englishman standing next to the huge, hulking Patagonian man and woman, and I can't help but feel stirred by the wonder of the scene, the majesty of those two Brobdingnagian figures towering over the astounded mar-iner. If I, twenty-first-century man living in this scientific age, can yearn for the existence of gigantic beings somewhere on this planet, how much easier it must have been for our ancestors, ever so much more credulous, to accept with delight these tall tales of tall people in the uttermost part of the earth.

  Copyright © 2011 by Robert Silverberg

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  * * *

  Novelette: SURF

  by Suzanne Palmer

  Suzanne Palmer is a writer and artist living in Western Massachusetts. She is a mother of three, who works in IT during the day at UMass, Amherst. Suzanne spends her evenings chasing toddlers and her nights writing, which doesn't leave her much time to sleep. While the author has mostly sold her work to Interzone we are fortunate, that her creative use of the wee hours has finally led to an exciting tale of adventure and intrigue in deep space for Asimov's.

  [I itch.]

  The translated words were a low growl in Bari's ear. Crouched in the cramped airlock waiting for it to finish cycling, she barely had the elbow room to get her hand up to her headset and tap her suit mic over to her private channel. “Omi, tell Turquoise I'm working. There's nothing I can do for him right now.” In another few seconds she would be back inside and not able to talk to him at all anymore.

  [I've reminded him,] came Omi's response in its comfortable, artificial cadence. [He tells me he's going to be quiet now.]

  “Thanks,” she said. The lock light turned from orange to a sickly green, and she had to go down on one knee to pull herself through the inner hatch into the cabin. Climbing wearily back up to her feet on the far side, she disengaged her suit's environment controls and lifted her faceplate to take in lungfuls of stale warm air that smelled of people too long crammed together in a confined place.

  “Oh great, she's back.” Vikka looked up from her seat where, as near as Bari could tell, she hadn't even moved in the hour-plus she'd been gone.

  Cardin spun around in his chair. “You took your time,” he said. “You're lucky you didn't spook the herd, the way you were zipping around out there.” If he noticed the contradiction in those statements—you were too slow, you were too fast—he didn't care. Beside him at the helm, Ceen didn't even bother to turn around. Bari lifted the cumbersome maneuvering rig up over her head and settled it back in its alcove. Its oxygen tanks had only depleted by 20 percent, but she connected it back up to the recharger anyway. Good habits die hard, bad ones kill you.

  Cardin put his hands together and flexed them outward, knuckles cracking, before he returned to peck at the patchwork system board he'd set on the console deck in front of him. “I saw activity out there a few moments ago, but I'm not up yet,” he said. “Did anyone get it?”

  “She still has the hand-held,” Vikka said.

  “Ms. Park?” Cardin asked.

  “Oh,” she said, fumbling for the device her research advisor had spent half a lifetime designing, and checking the tiny display. “There was an 82 percent match with the pattern we associate with unhappiness.”

  “Excellent!” Cardin shook a fist in the air in a gesture of triumph. “No one has ever come this close to understanding Rooan communication before. With my system, and the extended, close-up sampling we'll be taking today, we are making history!” A royal “we," Bari thought. His ambitions were transparent: King of his little corner of Haudernellian Academia. By his expression she could tell he was imagining the future speaking engagements, celebrity symposiums, and awards ceremonies that would be his natural due.

  She knew she was only here because he needed someone expendable to do the spaceside work while he and his precious postdocs huddled around their tiny, blurred monitors congratulating themselves for their own manifest cleverness and superiority, safe and snug within the run-down, decommissioned Corallan shuttle that Cardin had dubbed Project One, but which, after his attempt to camouflage the exterior, would forever be the Space Turd in her mind.

  The Sfazili independent who'd hauled them out here into the barrens had taken one look at their craft and declared as much himself; alas, neither Cardin nor anyone else on his team understood the tradesman's argot, so her amusement had been a private one.

  “Okay, people,” Cardin said. “We need to run calibration tests. Ms. Park, you arrayed our external sensors according to my exact specifications?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You double-checked?”

  “Twice,” she said. Vikka rolled her eyes.

  “So far we've been lucky and they haven't noticed we're here despite Ms. Park's thrashing about out there. Ceen has gotten us into position along the outer edge of the herd, and we'll maneuver our way a little further in as opportunity presents. As you know, the Rooan travel with their bioluminescent shell-walls all turned toward the center axis of the herd, so the further in we get, the more inter-animal communication we should capture. The herd is currently moving about point-oh-oh-oh-two Cee, so we've got about six and a half hours before they brush the edge of Auroran territory. We want to be well away by then with as much data as we can collect.

  “Ms. Park, give Vikka the handheld unit,” he ordered. “Then go find yourself a place to sit in the back and stay out of our way.”

  Vikka got up from her seat and sauntered over. As Bari extended the unit to her, Vikka leaned in closer. “Right before we lau
nched I told Cardin that you were sleeping with Morus and giving away information about the project,” she confided in a low voice. “He was so furious at you that I thought he was going to bust something. Oh, I know! A lie, but what can I say? I just don't like you Northies.” Smiling, she yanked the handheld out of Bari's grasp and returned to her seat without a further look back.

  Bari finished stowing her gear, her face burning. Morus was not only the top xenobiologist at rival Guratahan Sfazil Equatorial University, he was also studying the Rooan. The rival scientists hated each other with a white-hot passion that neared homicidal rage. It explained why Cardin had become more actively hostile in the last few days. She was lucky he hadn't had time to replace her—if Vikka had gotten her kicked off the project out of sheer spite . . .

  Don't think about it, she told herself. I'm here. Gear properly stowed, she folded down the jumpseat near the airlock and buckled down her safety tether. And she waited.

  From where she sat in the back, her view out the front was mostly obscured, but the light from Beserai's sun shining on the black, rough backs of the Rooan made faint arcs of silhouette among the stars ahead. She counted a half dozen, though the herd strength was closer to thirty times that number; the very few, vulnerable young were tucked in the center, away from prying eyes. Not even Cardin, in all his arrogance, would risk trying to penetrate into the core of the herd.

  As if reading her thoughts, Cardin spoke up. “We need to stay far enough on the periphery so that they don't take too close a look at us. The Rooan are normally placid animals, but with the toll those pirates and thugs have been taking on the herd's numbers, they'll get more skittish the closer we get to Auroran space.”

  [Doesn't everyone already know this? Why speak if not to say something useful, unless it's just to hear his own voice?]

  Bari allowed herself a small tic of a smile at Omi's comment. Not that Cardin was wrong; the remote station and surrounding outposts that made up Aurora Enclave had earned their reputation for vicious and capricious violence. The Barrens had many such lawless enclaves, but Aurora was the biggest and meanest of all. Even Earth Alliance, if need drew them into the territories at all, skirted well around it. The Rooan could not. The herd's migration loop between Beserai and Beenjai was dictated by gravity wells and the shortest of few, long paths between scarce resources. Along the way, the massive dwellers of the void inevitably attracted scientists, a handful of sightseers, and bored Auroran fighters looking for cheap and easy target practice.

  Bari looked up as flashes of light caught her eye; one of the Rooan directly ahead was displaying a shifting pattern of bioluminescent greens and yellows, coruscating up and down the creature's underside. An answering flash of red came from further ahead.

  “Shush!” Cardin yelled, though no one was speaking, and even if they were, they could not drown out light with sound. He leaned in close, his whole frame tense. “Why isn't the translator working?”

  “It's processing,” Vikka said, squinting at the handheld. “Um . . . the first one, it's giving me ‘food near’ at 40 percent, and the response, um, ‘happiness’ at 75 percent correlation.”

  “We're nowhere near a nutrient source. Give me that,” Cardin said, and yanked the unit out of her hand. He stared at it, shook it, stared at it some more. “Food near,” he repeated, scowling.

  “Could it be a statement of a more general anticipation?” Bari spoke up from the back. From the look Vikka shot her, it was an unwelcome interruption. Cardin's gray eyebrows knit together, then he made a slight tsk sound. “A surprisingly good suggestion,” he said, turning to look one at a time at both Ceen and Vikka as if to reprimand them for not having been the ones to voice it. “Although the common understanding is that the Rooan aren't sufficiently intelligent for such an indirect concept.”

  Vikka had just started to flash a sneer at Bari when he added, “Of course, common understanding is often wrong. If I can prove the Rooan have a rudimentary grasp of abstract thinking, that would be an enormous coup.”

  “And if you could prove Northies have a rudimentary grasp—”

  “Bigotry doesn't become you, Vikka.” Cardin cut her off. “Nor jealousy. You're the professional—act like one.”

  [Ha! Face stomp!] came over Bari's link. [Turquoise asks how much longer you expect to be. I know you can't answer, so I told him you take your job very seriously and he'll just have to wait.]

  She did take it seriously—seriously enough to have hiked thirty-seven miles of barren no-man's-land to the isthmus border between North and South nations on Haudernelle, everything she owned on her back and a verichip with a personal recommendation from the Northern Institute's Director of Xenobiologic Field Studies tucked in a pocket against her breast like a ticket home. Even that had only been enough to get her five minutes of Cardin's time. If she hadn't had the experience with zero-grav and the full set of untethered spacewalk certifications, that would have been as far as she'd gotten. He'd told her as much when she signed on, and told her if she didn't appreciate that he'd given her a job at all she could “go back to the woods and scratch in the dirt for food like the rest of your people,” or something like that; the exact words had fastened less in her memory than the tone of them.

  As it turned out, she'd displaced another of Cardin's students who didn't have the certs, and Vikka had been trying to drive her out ever since. Bari suspected that they'd been lovers, but didn't care enough to find out.

  Cardin stood up. “On the off chance that Ms. Park is on to something, I should be able to get the system to give us a double translation simultaneously, one of explicit meaning, and one of running extrapolation. But I need to access the primary console to make programming changes. Ceen, keep us steady relative to the herd.”

  The professor threw the floor hatch and disappeared down into the tiny hold where the mishmash of tech he'd spent decades putting together nestled like a canker in the ship's belly. As soon as the hatch closed behind him, Vikka whirled on Bari. “You fucking bitch," she said. “Are you trying to make me look stupid? Haven't I warned you to keep your damn Northie mouth shut?”

  “You have,” Bari said. She checked her tether, got out of her seat, then popped open her locker and began sorting out her personal gear.

  Ahead of them the gigantic shapes of the Rooan flashed light back and forth, yellows and blues, reds and purples, a lone beacon of blue. “Will you two shut up?” Ceen snarled. “It's bad enough trying to fly this piece of shit as it is, and Cardin will kill us all if we miss anything important out there or spook the herd.”

  Ah, my jacket, Bari thought, unfolding the garment and shaking it out.

  “Oh, very nice,” Vikka said, reaching a new high pitch. “Did your mommy sew that for you back home? What do you Northies call home, anyway? Palm-fern huts in the woods? Dirt burrows?”

  Bari slipped into the jacket. She flexed her arms, shrugged her shoulders, pleased again that even after all these years the fit didn't impair her physical movement. The jacket was comfortable, almost too much so. She walked forward toward Vikka, the weight of her mag boots on the metal decking and the faint tension of her safety tether a reassurance. “Would you like to see?”

  “Why the hell would I want to be anywhere near anything of yours?” Vikka said, as Bari extended one hand, palm up, to show off the workmanship of the embroidered sleeve. As the woman opened her mouth to say more, Bari reached around with her other hand and slammed Vikka's head into the console in front of her.

  “What the fuck!?” Ceen shouted, half-rising out of his seat, as Bari reached over and punched the emergency off for the ship's gravity field. Untethered, Ceen's motion propelled him into the back of his seat and into a bulkhead. He managed to get a grip on the seat foam and was trying to swing himself within reach of the end of his free tether when Bari kicked him just hard enough to send him careening around the cabin. Then she bent down and snapped tight the lock on the hatch Cardin had just gone through.

  Vikka was struggli
ng up in her seat, one side of her face a brutal red and already beginning to swell, her eyes tearing up with hatred. Bari put a hand on the back of her neck and forced her face back down against the console. “Vikka,” she said. “Please understand. First of all, you make yourself look stupid all on your own. Second, my mother is dead, so I'm not really inclined to listen to you talk about her. Third, while I came to Haudernelle Academy from the North, I wasn't born there. Still, during my time in the North, nearly everyone I met was intelligent, hard-working, and generous, entirely unlike you. It's something you might consider if you find yourself face to face with a real ‘Northie.'”

  “I am so going to kick your ass,” Vikka hissed. “Cardin will—”

  “Cardin can't do anything, and neither can you.” Bari took the small dermal patch she'd palmed while sorting through her stuff and slapped it—harder than necessary, she had to admit—onto Vikka's forehead. Almost immediately the woman's eyes rolled up into the back of her head and she went limp. “Nighty night.”

  “Are you mad?” Ceen shouted from where he drifted mid-cabin. “You're jeopardizing the entire project!”

  At least he cares about the science, if nothing else, Bari thought. She peeled the backing off another patch. He watched her do it, flailing his arms hopelessly trying to reach something to grab onto. “If it's any consolation, Ceen, the project was already failing,” she said. “The herd is going to turn early toward Aurora space, coming dangerously close to their outpost in this sector. You'd only have had another thirty minutes, possibly less, to try to accumulate the material needed to demonstrate the validity of Cardin's translation program. We both know that's not nearly enough time. And after this, the herd is going to slingshot off Beserai and head back into deep space for the centuries-long trip to Beenjai. They'll go dormant and silent, leaving you with nothing left to study.”