Free Nebula Awards Showcase 2006 by Gardner Dozois Page A

nothing.”
    She snorted then, angry. “My experience of death,” she mocked, “is that it’s too often for profit . I want to make mass murder an unprofitable venture. I want to crash the market in starvation by giving away life .” She gave another snort, amused this time. “It’s the ultimate anti-capitalist gesture.”
    Terzian didn’t rise to that. Gestures, he thought, were just that.
    Gestures didn’t change the fundamentals. If some jefe couldn’t starve his people to death, he’d just use bullets, or deadly genetic technology he bought from outlaw Transnistrian corporations.
    The landscape, all blazing green, raced past at over two hundred kilometers per hour. An attendant came by and sold them each a cup of coffee and a sandwich.
    “You should use my phone to call your wife,” Stephanie said as she peeled the cellophane from her sandwich. “Let her know that your travel plans have changed.”
    Apparently she’d noticed Terzian’s wedding ring.
    “My wife is dead,” Terzian said.
    She looked at him in surprise. “I’m sorry,” she said.
    “Brain cancer,” he said.
    Though it was more complicated than that. Claire had first complained of back pain, and there had been an operation, and the tumor removed from her spine. There had been a couple of weeks of mad joy and relief, and then it had been revealed that the cancer had spread to the brain and that it was inoperable. Chemotherapy had failed. She died six weeks after her first visit to the doctor.
    “Do you have any other family?” Stephanie said.
    “My parents are dead, too.” Auto accident, aneurysm. He didn’t mention Claire’s uncle Geoff and his partner Luis, who had died of HIV within eight months of each other and left Claire the Victorian house on Esplanade in New Orleans. The house that, a few weeks ago, he had sold for six hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and the furnishings for a further ninety-five thousand, and Uncle Geoff’s collection of equestrian art for a further forty-one thousand.
    He was disinclined to mention that he had quite a lot of money, enough to float around Europe for years.
    Telling Stephanie that might only encourage her.
    There was a long silence. Terzian broke it. “I’ve read spy novels,” he said. “And I know that we shouldn’t go to the place we’ve bought tickets for. We shouldn’t go anywhere near Nice.”
    She considered this, then said, “We’ll get off at Avignon.”

    They stayed in Provence for nearly two weeks, staying always in un-rated hotels, those that didn’t even rise to a single star from the Ministry of Tourism, or in gîtes ruraux, farmhouses with rooms for rent. Stephanie spent much of her energy trying to call colleagues in Africa on her cell phone and achieved only sporadic success, a frustration that left her in a near-permanent fury. It was never clear just who she was trying to call, or how she thought they were going to get the papilloma off her hands. Terzian wondered how many people were involved in this conspiracy of hers.
    They attended some local fêtes, though it was always a struggle to convince Stephanie it was safe to appear in a crowd. She made a point of disguising herself in big hats and shades and ended up looking like a cartoon spy. Terzian tramped rural lanes or fields or village streets, lost some pounds despite the splendid fresh local cuisine, and gained a suntan. He made a stab at writing several papers on his laptop, and spent time researching them in Internet cafés.
    He kept thinking he would have enjoyed this trip, if only Claire had been with him.
    “What is it you do, exactly?” Stephanie asked him once, as he wrote. “I know you teach at university, but . . .”
    “I don’t teach anymore,” Terzian said. “I didn’t get my post-doc renewed. The department and I didn’t exactly get along.”
    “Why not?”
    Terzian turned away from the stale, stalled ideas on his display. “I’m too interdisciplinary. There’s a place on the