Bruce Sterling - Holy Fire

Praise for the novels of Bruce Sterling

HEAVY WEATHER

Brilliant fascinating exciting A full complement of thrills.

The New York Times Book Review

A remarkable and individual sharpness of vision Sterling hacks the future, and an elegant hack it is.

Locus

So believable are the speculations that one becomes convinced that the world must and will develop into what Sterling has predicted.

Science Fiction Age

Sharp intriguing A near-future thriller.

Publishers Weekly

THE DIFFERENCE ENGINE (with William Gibson)
Breathtaking.

The New York Times

Bursting with the kind of demented speculation and obsessive detailing that has made both Gibsons and Sterlings work stand out.

San Francisco Chronicle

Highly imaginative [A] splendid effort.

Chicago Tribune

Smartly plotted, wonderfully crafted, and written with sly literary wit spins marvelously and runs like a dream.

Entertainment Weekly

ALSO BY BRUCE STERLING

Novels

The Artificial Kid

The Difference Engine

(with William Gibson)

Heavy Weather

Involution Ocean

Islands in the Net

Schismatrix

Distraction

A Good Old-Fashioned Future

Stories

Crystal Express

Globalhead

Nonfiction

The Hacker Crackdown:

Law and Disorder on the Electronic Frontier

Editor

Mirrorshades: The Cyberpunk Anthology

This edition contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

HOLY FIRE
A Bantam Spectra Book

PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam Hardcover edition published October 1996

SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed S are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc,

All rights reserved.
Copyright 1996 by Bruce Sterling.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

eISBN: 978-0-307-79677-6

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words Bantam Books and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

v3.1

M ia Ziemann needed to know what to wear at a deathbed.

The net counseled simplicity and sincerity. Mia was a ninety-four-year-old Californian medical economist, while the prospective deceased, Martin Warshaw, had been her college sweetheart some seventy-four years previously. Mia could expect some prepared statement. There would very likely be a bequest of some sort. Conversation would involve an attempt to put Mr. Warshaws life into retrospective order, to supply the sense of grace and closure so desirable during lifes final chapter. She would not be asked to witness the actual moment of death.

A deathbed reunion of long-separated lovers was a challenge to etiquette, but the late twenty-first century shone in social tidiness. Dilemmas of this sort were exhaustively debated in endless rounds of calls for commentary, working papers from boards of experts, anecdotal testimonies, ethics conventions, sworn public hearings, policy manuals. No aspect of human existence escaped smoothing over by thoughtful, seasoned, and mature counsel.

Mia studied as much of this material as she could stomach. She spent the afternoon reacquainting herself with Martin Warshaws financial and medical records. She hadnt seen Martin in fifty years, though she had followed his public career to some extent. Those records of Martins were most revealing and informative. They had made his life an open book. This was their purpose.

Mia reached a decision: black flats, support hose, a reactive girdle and cuirass, a knee-length silk dress in maroon and gray, long sleeves, high collar. A hat definitely seemed in order. No gloves. Gloves were recommended, but gloves seemed too clinical.

Mia had a blood filtration, a skin enzymation, a long bone-deep massage, a mineral bath, and a manicure. She had her hair cleaned, laminated, volumized, styled, and lacquered. She increased the saturated fat in her diet. She slept that night under a hyperbaric tent.

Next morning, November 19, Mia went into the city to look for a decent hat, some kind of hat that might truly suit her circumstances. It was a cold autumnal day in San Francisco. Fog crept in off the Bay, oozing through the leafy cliffsides of the office high-rises. She walked and shopped, and shopped and walked, for a long time. She saw nothing that could match her mood.

A dog was following her up Market Street, loping through the crowd. She stopped behind the shadowed column of a portico and stretched out her bare hand, beckoning.

The dog paused timidly, then came up and sniffed at her fingers.

Are you Mia Ziemann? the dog said.

Yes, I am, Mia said. People walked past her, brisk and purposeful, their solemn faces set, neat shoes scuffing the red brick sidewalks. Under the steady discipline of Mias gaze, the dog settled on his haunches, crouching at her feet.

I tracked you from your home, bragged the dog, panting rhythmically. Its a long way. The dog wore a checkered knit sweater, tailored canine trousers, and a knitted black skullcap.

The dogs gloved front paws were vaguely prehensile, like a raccoons hands. The dog had short clean fawn-colored fur and large attractive eyes. His voice came from a speaker implanted in his throat.

A car bleeped once at a tardy pedestrian, rudely breaking the subtle urban murmurs of downtown San Francisco. Ive walked a long way, Mia said. It was clever of you to find me. Good dog.

The dog brightened at the praise, and wagged his tail. I think Im lost and I feel rather hungry.

Thats all right, nice dog. The dog reeked of cologne. Whats your name?

Plato, the dog said shyly.

Thats a fine name for a dog. Why are you following me?

This sophisticated conversational gambit exhausted the dogs limited verbal repertoire, but with the usual cheerful resilience of his species he simply changed the subject. I live with Martin Warshaw! Hes very good to me! He feeds me well. Also Martin smells good! Except not like other days. Not like The dog seemed pained. Not like now.

Did Martin send you to follow me?

The dog pondered this. He talks about you. He wants to see you. You should come talk to him. He cant be happy. The dog sniffed at the paving, then looked up expectantly. May I have a treat?

I dont carry treats with me, Plato.

Thats very sad, Plato observed.

How is Martin? How does he feel?

A dim anxiety puckered the hairy canine wrinkles around the dogs eyes. It was odd how much more expressive a dogs face became once it learned to talk. No, the dog offered haltingly, Martin smells unhappy. My home feels bad inside. Martin is making me very sad. He began to howl.

The citizens of San Francisco were a very tolerant lot, civilized and cosmopolitan. Mia could see that the passersby strongly disapproved of anyone who would publicly bully a dog to tears.

Its all right, Mia soothed, calm down. Ill go with you. Well go to see Martin right away.