Michael Swanwick - Vacuum Flowers

By the same author

In the Drift

ARBOR HOUSE New York

Copyright 1987 by Michael Swanwick

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Published in the United States of America by Arbor House Publishing Company and in Canada by Fitzhenry & Whiteside Ltd.

Manufactured in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Swanwick, Michael. Vacuum flowers.

I. Title.

PS3569.W28V3 1987 813'.54 86-20603

ISBN 0-87795-870-X

Thanks are due to Marianne for naming the Pequod, undifferentiating cells, and seeding a stagnant drop of water, to Jack Dann for the scripture from Pushkin, to Bob Walters for supplying plesiosaurs and designing Wyeths vacuum suit, to Greg Frost and Tim Sullivan for last-minute advice, to Tom Purdom for breakfast beer, to Gardner Dozois for the usual reasons, and to Virginia Kidd for patience. Financial support was provided by the M. C. Porter Endowment for the Arts. And a special debt of gratitude is owed Mario Rups, Ed Bryant, and Don Keller for irritating remarks.

S he didnt know she had died.

She had, in fact, died twiceby accident the first time, but suicide later. Now the corporation that owned her had decided she should die yet again, in order to fuel a million throwaway lives over the next few months.

But Rebel Elizabeth Mudlark knew none of this. She knew only that something was wrong and that nobody would talk to her about it.

Why am I here? she asked.

The doctors face loomed over her. It was thin and covered by a demon mask of red and green wetware paint that she could almost read. It had that horrible programmed smile that was supposed to be reassuring, the corners of the mouth pushing his cheeks into little round balls. He directed that deaths head rictus at her. Oh, I wouldnt worry about that, he said.

A line of nuns floated by overhead, their breasts bobbing innocently, wimples starched and white. They were riding the magnetic line at the axis of the city cannister, as graceful as small ships. It was a common enough sight, even a homey one. But then Rebels perception did a flipflop and the nuns were unspeakably alien, floating upside-down against the vast window walls that were cold with endless stretches of bright glittery stars embedded in night. She must have seen the like a thousand times before, but now, without warning, her mind shrieked strange strange strange and she couldnt make heads or tails of what she was seeing. I cant remember things, Rebel said. Sometimes Im not even sure who I am.

Well, thats perfectly normal, the doctor said, under the circumstances. He disappeared behind her head. Nurse, would you take a look at this?

Someone she could not see joined him. They conferred softly. Gritting her teeth, Rebel said, I suppose it happens to you all the time.

They ignored her. The scent of roses from the divider hedges was heavy and cloying, thick enough to choke on. Traffic continued flowing along the axis.

If she could have moved so much as an arm, Rebel wouldve waited for the doctor to lean too close, and then tried to choke the truth out of him. But she was immobilized, unable even to move her head. She could only stare up at the people floating by and the stars wheeling monotonously past. The habitat strips to either side of overhead were built up with platforms and false hills, rising like islands from a starry sea. By their shores occasional groups of picnickers ventured onto the window floor, black specks visible only when they occulted stars or other cannister cities. The strange planet went by again.

Well want to wait another day before surgery, the doctor said finally. But her personas stabilized nicely. If there arent any major changes in her condition, we can cut tomorrow. He moved toward the door.

Wait a minute! Rebel cried. The doctor stopped, turned to look at her. Dead eyes surrounded by paint, under a brush of red hair. Have I given permission for this operation?

Again he turned that infuriatingly reassuring smile on her. Oh, I dont think thats important, he said, do you?

Before she could answer, he was gone.

As the nurse adjusted the adhesion disks on Rebels brow and behind her ears, she briefly leaned into Rebels view. It was a nun, a heavy woman with two chins and eyes that burned with visions of God. Earlier, when Rebel was still groggy and half-aware, she had introduced herself as Sister Mary Radha. Now Rebel could see that the nun had been tinkering with her own wetwareher mystic functions were cranked up so high she could barely function.

Rebel looked away, to hide her thoughts. Please turn on, she murmured. The video flat by the foot of her cot came up, open to the encyclopedia entry for medical codes. Hastily, she switched it over to something innocuous. Simple-structure atmospheric methane ecologies. She pretended to be absorbed in the text.

Then, as the nurse was leaving, Rebel casually said, Sister? The flats at a bad angle for me. Could you tilt it forward a little? The nun complied. Yeah, like that. No, a bit perfect. Rebel smiled warmly, and for a moment Sister Mary Radha basked in this manifestation of universal love. Then she floated out.

Fucking god-head, Rebel muttered. Then, to the flat, Thank you.

It turned itself off.

The flats surface was smooth and polished. Turned off, it darkly reflected the foot of Rebels cot and the medical code chart hanging there.

Rebel quickly decoded the reversed symbols. There were two simplified persona wheels, one marked Original, and the other Current. They looked nothing at all like each other. Another symbol for wetsurgical prep, and three more that, boiled down, meant she had no special medical needs. And a single line of print below that, where her name should have been. Rebel read it through twice, letter by letter, to make sure there was no mistake:

Property of Deutsche Nakasone GmbH

Anger rose up in Rebel like a savage white animal. She clenched her teeth and drew back her lips and did not try to fight it. She wanted this anger. It was her ally, her only friend. It raged through her paralyzed body, a hot storm of fangs and claws and violence.

Then the fury overran her sense of self and swept her under. Drowning, she was carried down into the dark chaos of helplessness below. Into the murky despair that had no name or purpose, where she lost her face, her body, her being. She was a demon, blindly watching people stream through the air and stars slide to the side, and hating them all. Wanting to smash them all together in her hands, cities and stars and people alike, and smear them into a pulpy little ball, as she laughed, with black tears running down from her eyes

* * *

She came out of her fugue feeling weak and depressed. Please tell me the time, she said, and the flat obeyed. Four hours had passed.

A woman stepped into the niche, a skinny type in greenface with a leather tool harness, some kind of low-level biotech. Humming to herself, she began to trim the walls. She worked methodically, obsessively, pausing every now and then to train a rose back into place.

Hey, sport, Rebel said. Do me a favor. Her loginess evaporated as the adrenalin began to flow. She flashed a smile.

Hmm? Ah! Er what is it? With a visible effort, the woman pulled herself away from her work.

Im getting out in a couple of hours, and nobodys arranged for any clothing for me. Could you drop by wherever-it-is on the way out, and get them to send something over?