The Mammoth Book of Best New Science Fiction 18

by Gardner Dozois

  I shrug, and I don’t know why it bothers me. But I write “it’s okay” on the screen and then I really do have to lie flat for a minute or two. And when the ceiling stops moving and I look back up at the screen, all the writing is gone. There are just the flowers, scattered all over.

  I kind of feel comforted and I’m not sure why. I guess because daturk seems to be able to get in anywhere, so I guess sometimes I’ve sort of pretended that she’s always there. Just checking in, you know? So I don’t worry about it anymore, I’ll see what happens when I go home with the doc. I can always catch a cab back to the walk-up if I have to.

  So I pull down a new book, some guy who walked across Canada, and it’s okay, but the author’s trying too hard, and the nurse is happy when I sit up, and even happier when I wobble down the hall and back without her nagging me too much. Hey, I know the drill. I spent a lot of time here, learned that if you do what they ask and don’t bug them, they’re nice to you, and if you’re a pain, they get even, sooner or later.

  And about the time they bring in another meal tray that’s loaded with food that carries way too much baggage from the past, the doc shows up again. This time, he’s not wearing the white doctor suit, just a classic jacket and shirt, no tie, no virus mask, every bit the doc, but smiling and relaxed, like we’re old friends meeting for a golf game or something. And the nurse brings me a release to sign and retina and a wheelchair, because they never let you walk out of the building, guess they’re afraid you’ll sue if you fall down and break a leg. And it’s not too bad walking to the car that the attendant brings up. A car. Well, I guess if you’re a doc, you can afford the registration fees and maybe he has to hurry into the hospital for emergencies.

  I think it’s the first time I’ve ridden in a car that wasn’t a taxi since that day. And it’s still real bright out, because it’s summer, and the streets are full of after-work crowds out shopping and eating and making eyes, squatting with wireless access screens on the pedestals of statues, on curbs, leaning against storefronts. No reason to be inside except to sleep. We pass them and they don’t even look.

  The condo is in one of the new towers, with a garage underneath with a gate and a guard with hard eyes. It’s fluorescent bright, and the elevator that whisks us upstairs is covered with really clean green carpet, walls, floor, everywhere. No mirrors. I get a little dizzy from the rush . . . I’m still feeling pretty rocky.

  We get off into this little space that’s supposed to look like a courtyard, I guess, with a brick path and gravel and a pool, and even the light feels like sunlight, and as the elevator doors close, something plops into the pool. A frog? A real one? I want to look, but the doc has his hand on my elbow now and he isn’t going to let me stop, I can feel it.

  Uh oh. Domino after all?

  The door that the brick path leads to opens all by itself, and I only see one other door on the other side of the courtyard space, so this is a pretty fancy place. I’m really shaky now, and I don’t much care if the doc is a Domino or not, I just want to sit down somewhere before I pass out, and everything sort of has this too bright, too clear look, like you get just before the black closes in. The room inside is huge, so big I can’t really sort it out, it’s all windows and light, and I can see blue sky, so we have to be way high, and green leaves and flowers and the sound of water, and the doc is pushing me and I sort of fall down into this chair.

  It takes a little bit for the room to come into focus again, and when it does, the doc is holding out a glass, and he’s looking a little worried, but not enough to scare me.

  “I’m sorry.” He pushes the glass a centimeter in my direction. “Take a drink of water.”

  And I do, and it helps, and I can look around. It’s one big room, with a marble-topped kitchen island at one end and a fireplace with fake logs at the other, and chairs and small sofas covered in leather-looking stuff, grouped together, all tasteful soft browns and grays with a few real bright splashes of color. The glass is a greenhouse wall with plants and bright splashy flowers and a little waterfall and rocks. It looks like one of those upscale ads you get hit with online.

  “You should get your strength back in a day or two.” Doc bustles in the kitchen area. “Juice?” he asks. “I’ve got just about anything you might want.”

  “Thanks. Anything is fine.”

  He brings me a tall glass, like the glass that had the water in it. It’s too heavy to be glass, cut into sharp geometric designs. Crystal? The juice is pink and I don’t recognize the flavor, maybe something tropical. It helps. I didn’t really eat the hospital stuff and all of a sudden I’m hungry. Doc has shed his jacket and poured a glass of dark red wine, and he’s bustling around in the kitchen, not chattering, which I like, but getting out pans and mushrooms and a thick slab of salmon, cooking quickly and efficiently enough that Antonio would only curl his lip and not really sneer. And in a pretty short time, he serves up salmon sautéed in olive oil with some tiny perfect vegetables and fresh pasta and we eat at the small wooden table at the edge of the kitchen space. There’s a single flower in a vase on the table and the food is good . . . really good, I mean, as good as what Antonio feeds the family at the restaurant. And I’m starving.

  Doc pours me a glass of wine to go with the salmon, a lighter red than he was drinking before, and it’s nice, light with a hint of fruit. A merlot? Domino has been teaching me wine, saving the stuff that the customers don’t finish, making me pay attention. He may be handsy, but he’s an okay guy and he really knows his wine.

  “I’ll be gone early in the morning.” Doc swirls his wine in his glass, his eyes on the darkening city beyond the glass. “Make yourself at home here. Do you mind staying in the condo?” He raises his eyebrows. “I haven’t reprogrammed my security, and once you go outside, you can’t get back in.”

  “That’s fine.” I shrug. “I don’t really have any place to go.” Then I frown at my own glass, the wine tugging at me. “How come you picked me?” I blurt the words out, and there’s this twinge of fear, like he might suddenly realize that he made a mistake. “I mean . . . why me?”

  He smiles at me then, just a little. Folds his napkin up and lays it beside his plate. “I was wondering how long it would take you to ask.” He leans his elbows on the table. “I looked at a lot of applicants.” He’s speaking slowly, thoughtfully. “You weren’t the only one with this kind of extensive damage.” His lips tighten briefly. “I’m not sure exactly what made me choose you in particular. Maybe because the cause was so . . . trivial. Not war, not an act of terrorism . . . just an accident.”

  He’s lying. I feel a small thin sliver of ice in my gut. Oh, yeah, I can always tell. I don’t know why. Maybe because I watch people a lot and they most of the time try not to notice me. So they act like I’m not there. But I’m just about never wrong.

  And he’s lying.

  “Look, you really got rushed into this.” He picks up his glass of wine. “I don’t know who leaked the project to the media, but they really went for the story.” He makes a face. “I wanted to get you safely into the hospital before someone interfered. Someone always has a reason. I’m not surprised that you feel a bit overwhelmed.”

  I run my thumb across the grain of the table, remembering that old man again. “How did you get . . . my picture.” My voice is a little shaky in spite of myself.

  “I contacted Children’s Services.” He clears his throat. “I assume they got permission to collect personal effects after your mother . . . after the accident. There was no other family. I’m letting you get too tired. Why don’t you come sit?” He nods toward the living room area. “The city is lovely after dark. Or would you rather go straight to bed?”

  I don’t want to go to bed. If I don’t sleep, I’m going to start thinking about this and . . . I don’t want to think about this. So I get up and go over to one of the big leather chairs and I don’t wobble too much. The view from here really is lovely. It’s not quite full dark, but the sky is a deep royal blue and t
he lights spangle the towers and streets with gold and green and red, and the new aerial trams slide like glowing beads across invisible wires, and I’ve never been this high up in my life. And the doc talks for awhile, real easy, as if we’ve been friends for a long time. He tells me about medical school and wanting to do this twenty years ago, back when it was just an experimental concept and stem cell research was getting outlawed everywhere, and it looked like this kind of thing – regrowing tissues – would never happen. And his eyes glow when he talks about it, and I think of the old guy with the gaunt face who preaches about his angry god down at the little square near my walk-up, and that’s how his eyes shine.

  I finally start nodding off and I lose track of what he’s saying. So he shows me to bed, and it’s a room about the size of my walk-up with its own bathroom and a spa tub and a separate shower and windows that look out at a bridge. And from this angle and height, I’m not even sure which bridge it is. And there are two twin beds and a chest, and there’s a robe and a new set of pajamas on one of the beds.

  “You didn’t bring a lot with you,” Doc says with a smile. “There are some clothes in the chest and basic stuff in the bathroom. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “I will,” I say, and he says good night and closes the door.

  I sit on the edge of the bed, my feet bare, the carpet thick as a mattress under my bare feet. I’m kind of dizzy from the wine and the day and probably all the time I was out while my face was growing back. I finally get up and I go into the bathroom, and I make myself look in the mirror. Yeah. Better. Closer to human. Not there yet, but closer. And there is toothpaste and that kind of stuff, but I just go straight to bed. And it’s weird. As I pull the cover up over me, already half asleep, it comes to me that this is somebody’s room. Not a guest room. Somebody sleeps here. And I’m not sure why I think that, because there’s no other clothes or stuff lying around. But I’m sure of it.

  I wake up late, and for a minute, I can’t remember where I am, and then it all comes back to me. And I can’t help it. I go into the bathroom, first thing, and I look at my face. And the doc is gone and I prowl around. I don’t know why I thought this was somebody’s room. There’s nothing to show. Clothes in the drawers all new, all my size. Expensive stuff, like I was a doc, too. It kind of creeps me out that they’re there, but I put them on because my crummy pants seem wrong in this fancy place, like they might rub off somehow, stain the furniture. And I really feel . . . different now. Like I’m changing and not just my face. I jumped off that cliff, that’s for sure. There’s a screen in the bedroom and I try it, but a polite woman’s voice tells me that I don’t have the password to get online, but there’s a separate library link and I can download books without a password. And I want to talk to daturk, but I settle for that book I started in the hospital, and by the time the doc arrives, I’ve finished it.

  The evening is strange, nice and somehow creepy at the same time. Doc fixes another really fine dinner, and there’s wine, and he asks me about what I’ve read and we talk – and you know, I’ve never talked about what I read to anybody but daturk. He’s smart. Well, I guess you got to be, to be a doc, huh? And he asks me about school and gets all thoughtful when I tell him about doing all the online courses I could get from the state. Then he starts talking about the benefit of in the flesh classes, and how maybe I want to do that when I’m done with the medical stuff and that would be fine.

  But he forgets how I live.

  That takes real money.

  And when I ask him about online, he sort of waves the question away, saying something about security and changing it is a pain. And just as I’m getting ready to go to bed, I remember and I ask him who used to sleep in the bedroom. He gets quiet, and I know right then I said the wrong thing. Then he says nobody.

  He’s lying again.

  It goes on like this, and it’s nice. Like the support group . . . only he really talks. Most of them don’t, except for Kitten. I go back to the hospital, and this time the session is short, and I’m not so whacked when I wake up. I come back to the condo after the second treatment. Doc doesn’t even ask me. He just shows up, and I’m not so shaky this time. I guess this session didn’t take as long. I didn’t dream as much, but I saw the old man again, and this time he held my hand around the blade of his knife and I felt such pride as the first pale sliver of wood curled back over my knuckles. There are no scars on those hands. They’re all smooth. So it’s from before, but I knew that. I wonder who the old guy is. My grandfather? I stretch for some kind of memory, but all I get is a picture of those small smooth hands and that pride and the curl of blonde wood.

  “I brought this home.” Doc pulls a mini CD out of his pocket after dinner one night. “I thought you might want to see what I’m doing.”

  It’s creepy, watching it. I sit in one of the chairs with my knees up under my chin and watch the cold arch of the machine crawl back and forth across my face. That’s all you can see – my face – the rest is all green sheets and hot light. Tubes and wires connect the silver arch of the machine to something I can’t see, and it runs on a kind of track, like a train, you know? And I guess he edited it some, because this is days and days, right? Weeks. But the machine zips back and forth and it maybe takes a half hour to watch . . . my face grow. On one pass, the machine squirts out this pale stuff . . . the scaffold, Doc calls it. Then it goes back again and sprays pinker stuff over . . . the cells. And they grow and then the machine sprays on more scaffold . . .

  It keeps crawling back and forth and my face . . . grows. There’s a little hump where most people have a nose and then it’s more of a hump and it gets bigger and arches and I’ve got cheeks and lips and . . .

  “After you were anaesthetized this time, we used an enzyme to dissolve the temporary dermal layer that was in place.” Doc is leaning forward, staring at the screen. “So that the new layers of tissue could bond seamlessly.”

  I think about lying there on that table unconscious, my skin melting away. I’ve never dreamed about the fire, but now I shiver, and for a moment I think I’m going to be sick.

  On the screen, the silver, tube-trailing machine crawls back and forth, and my nose looks like . . . a nose.

  I touch it. It juts out of my face. I can’t quite get my mind around that feeling. On the screen, the silvery arch slides back and forth and back again, growing my face, one layer of cells at a time.

  Living with the doc is kind of strange. It’s like a dream that I can’t quite wake up from. I think I’ve figured out what this is all about by now. It’s starting to feel okay to be there in that room that was somebody’s. It’s kind of like jail, too, I guess, because I still can’t get online and I can’t leave. I can, but we both know that if I do, it wrecks something. And I feel like a part of me I can’t really get inside of is having a conversation with Doc, and I’m not part of it, and this sounds really nuts, I know. But it’s okay.

  I want to talk to daturk about it.

  And one night, I dream that my face is talking to me and it scares the crap out of me, because if my face is out there talking to me, what is on the front of my skull? And I wake up yelling, and the doc is there, putting his arms around me, holding me, and just sitting there until I fall asleep again. And this time, I dream about this woman and she’s looking down at me and crying and she has red hair, and I wake up knowing that this is my mother, and I’ve never dreamed about her before. Not once.

  Why is she crying? I try to remember and I can’t.

  My face is wrong. I don’t know how I know. But I do. When I tell Doc, he tells me it’s normal. The feeling will go away after awhile.

  He’s not lying this time.

  Two more sessions to go. I look like a painting that’s not quite finished yet. And when I look in the mirror, this stranger looks back at me. I don’t think he likes me.

  I dream about the old man a lot. I’m pretty sure he’s my grandfather. He lets me carve a piece of wood, holding my hands in his and mine
are very small. I dream about my mother, too. And I dream about her crying again, and sometimes, there is all this white light and stuff that means . . . hospital. How could she be in the hospital? She died in the car, before I went there.

  Didn’t she?

  Didn’t she?

  The doc talks about my staying here with him after, about going to college. He talks about having no kids, and money, and why have it if you don’t use it? There’s a story about this, real old . . . a man who carved this statue and then it came to life and was his perfect lover. I guess that’s what Doc’s doing, with all his talk about college and my staying with him. Like Domino after all . . . but you know? It’s an okay trade. Really. It is. But I still feel like I’m living in a dream and my face still looks at me like I’m a stranger. And there’s no reason to say no, so I don’t know why I don’t say yes right then. But I can’t. Not out loud.

  Doc thinks that means yes, I guess. I don’t know.

  And I ask him if my mother might still be alive and he looks at me real strange. “No,” he says. And he’s not lying.

  And then daturk finds me.

  I’m downloading a book and the screen lights up with a storm of wind and yellow leaves swirling around in what looks like a miniature tornado. gd security but not gd enough Green words swirl with the wind and then the screen is full of fireworks – daturk laughing. u ok?

  “Yeah,” I can say the words out loud because this is a sweet system and does voice. I wonder what the wind and leaves mean. “I couldn’t get out. Doc’s paranoid about security.”

  The gray clouds and mirror lake appear. She’s being thoughtful. u gonna b pretty? she finally asks.