The Mammoth Book of Best New Science Fiction 18

by Gardner Dozois

  I’m . . . scared.

  And that’s silly, because what the hell have I got to lose? There are a bunch more pages and I’m supposed to retina each one after I read it. They’re full of words and numbers and paragraphs I’ve seen before that mean “you can’t sue me” and I snap a retina on each of them without reading a word and send it back. Then I touch up a couple of daturk’s links, but she doesn’t answer, so maybe she picked up that I was pissed or maybe she’s doing whatever she does. It’s early, but I don’t feel like downloading a book, so I call up some music from one of the fringe sites and listen to somebody mixing oud and clarinet and a hot rhythm section with a Latin flavor, no less. It’s not great, but it’s better than dodging the newstreams on the web.

  The password lets me take one of the sleek new auto cabs, so I don’t have to put up with a rickshaw driver looking at me in his mirror, and at the hospital door, I drop the CD in the tray and my retina lets me right through the security lock. Soon as the inner door closes behind me, a yellow arrow lights up on the black matte floor at my feet. Follow the yellow brick road, okay, I’m game. It takes me down a wide hallway, past other zombies shuffling along with their eyes on their own arrows, purple, or green, or blue. Darts, finally, under a wide door made out of some kind of wood-looking material that doesn’t feel like wood when I lay my palm on it.

  Funny. That’s one of the few things I remember from before . . . sitting with this old guy as he carved at this piece of wood. And he hands it to me, and I feel it like silk, all warm and somehow . . . alive. It was curvy, I guess, but all I remember is his smile, hair like tufts of white cotton, and that wood like felt like an animal’s flank beneath my hand. Or a woman’s maybe. I wouldn’t know.

  “Mr. Halsey.” The receptionist who buzzed me in smiles, and she’s good because it barely falters. Or maybe she sees a lot like me. “You got our letter. The doctor is with a patient, would you take a seat?”

  Doctors are always with a patient when you show up, but her voice is warm, and that little flinch I got when I first came in has gone away and I can almost feel her smile. So I smile back . . . I can sort of do that . . . and pick up one of the nice handhelds racked by the comfy chairs. It offers a bunch of magazines, some stories by Name authors and even a couple of quick thrillers, heavy on the graphics. Not your National Health selection. I touch through them, but the Names I’ve read and the thrillers don’t thrill me. About the time I touch it off, the door opens and the doctor comes out. He’s not the one who interviewed me. This guy is tall, so that I have to look up when I get to my feet. He’s pretty much your average Euro mongrel type, brown hair, long face, ho hum nose. I always notice faces. Funny. And he doesn’t flinch. He smiles. And he looks at me. Really looks. People don’t do that. Their glances skid off my face like leather soles on ice. Meanwhile he’s shaking my hand, and before I can turn the thinking part of my brain back on, we’re in his office, which is all carpet and grasspaper on the walls, and a real wood desk about as big as my bed. I want to run my hands over it and I don’t.

  “You got my letter.” His smile broadens just a hair. “You’re a fast reader.”

  I shrug. “It could turn out worse?”

  Now he shrugs. My letter. No doctorial “our” for him. He gets points for that.

  “Are you willing to undergo the procedure? You understand that it’s still experimental, and although we’ve repaired more localized damage that is similar in depth of cellular destruction, we haven’t actually . . .” He falters for the merest instant.

  “Fixed anyone like me,” I offer. Helpfully. Belligerently. Okay, I’ll admit it.

  “Yes.” And his eyes are on me, and they’re grave, not offended by my petty snap. I feel suddenly . . . small.

  “I’m sorry.” I look down. Something I don’t do much anymore. “Whatever you want to do, do.” And I am . . . yes, afraid. I hate the feeling. Flinch as the doc puts his hand on my shoulder, want to slap him off.

  When was the last time somebody did that? Put his hand on me for no reason? Well, Domino, but that wasn’t for no reason and Domino isn’t picky.

  “Let me show you something.” He nods toward the desk top. It has a holo-projector set into the top and a bright blur materializes above it, coalescing slowly into a human head. It’s a kid with a bright smile, the kind you see kids give when Mom or Dad points the camera. He has wispy brown hair and blue eyes and a really cute face, and I’m looking and this hand closes around my insides and squeezes, and all of a sudden I can’t breathe anymore.

  Because it’s me. I know it, and I don’t know why I know it, but I do.

  He’s . . . pretty. Way off in the distance, I feel the doc’s fingers squeezing my shoulder and hear him telling me to sit down, and something bumps the back of my knees and I sort of fall onto a seat, but I can’t take my eyes off that kid’s face.

  “Children’s Services had a photo in their file. I’ve used a modeling program to age that original to the present.” The doc squeezes my shoulder again, and the boy’s face starts to change and I want to yell stop, but nothing works, so I just sit there frozen and watch him get older. He face lengthens and firms up and his hair goes from wispy to a contemporary buzz and the program even adds a diamond stud to one ear lobe. And his eyes change, too. Oh, they’re still a blue that’s almost gray, but the expression changes from that happy-kid smile to a look that seems . . . sad. And I wonder if the programmer meant to do that, or if I’m just reading stuff into it that isn’t really there. But that’s just a trickle of thought, because most of me is . . . numb.

  That’s how I would look?

  “It’s going to work.” His voice is low, gentle, and his hand is still on my shoulder. “I can’t give you proof, because you’re the first case where the damage is this extensive, but I know it. If I didn’t know for sure, I would never have asked you.”

  He means it. Oh, God, I hear it in his voice, and that face in front of me is so damn beautiful . . . I’m going to start shaking, or crying, or just explode, burst into a scatter of dust in a minute, and it’s as if he knows, because he gives my shoulder a final squeeze and steps back. “You’ll check into the hospital tomorrow,” he tells me. “We’ve already contacted your employer and he’s giving you the time off, with a job return guarantee.”

  “How . . .” I swallow, try again. “How can you . . . add all that.” All the face that isn’t there . . . the ears, nose, lips, eyebrows that I see in that holo.

  “We’re using cloned and modified cell strains,” he says. “Using our computer model of how you should look, we’ll build a scaffold, layer by layer. That’s a three dimensional structure built of microthin layers of a complex mix of biodegradable polyesters loaded with the right enzymes and hormones that trigger cell growth. The scaffold dissolves as the cells grow. We do this kind of thing already, in a big Petrie dish, to make sheets of graft skin . . . you know about that. But in a three-D scaffold, created in place, the cells differentiate to form the appropriate type of tissues and they form in place. No surgery. No implanting. Your face will simply . . . grow back.”

  I hear passion in his voice and it helps. It cracks some of this numbness that coats me like ice. He believes in this. Like it’s God, and he’s almost touched it.

  He turns that look on me, and for once, I don’t see my real face in his eyes. I see that face in the holo. And his belief is hot as summer sun.

  “I will see you tomorrow,” he tells me. “And we’ll get started.”

  I leave. Fast. Go outside, onto concrete and turn left. Start walking. I walk, and it’s all concrete with buildings and people and I don’t really see any of it. If anybody looked at my face, I missed it. But after awhile, the city looks pretty much normal again, new and old, fancy and cheap, all layered on top of each other, and some woman with fancy braids does a bad double-take and nearly falls off the curb. I figure out where I am, catch the subway, and go back to the walk-up. I figure I’ll download a book, a new one by one of those hot Ar
ab writers, you know, one of those guys that grew up in the forever war zone and knows things that I sure hope I don’t ever have to learn, and they’re not popular because they mostly don’t like anyone who’s not Arab, but sometimes, you know, all that anger and hatred makes me jealous. They have someone to hate.

  Me, I just have a why-did-this-happen wreck, mom and kid, gas tank catches fire . . . Act of God? Maybe if I believed in a God I could hate him. Or her. Why am I thinking this tonight?

  Because I’m scared. And I don’t know why. Because what I told the doc was true, what have I got to lose? But I feel like I’m standing on this cliff, and once I jump off, I can’t ever get back here. I don’t download the book after all. It’s Support Night. The reminder pops up on my screen. It’s this weekly thing I have to do to keep my Disability. Proves I’m working on living with my face. That I’m not planning on gunning down tourists in Times Square. I have to go. So I do.

  It’s almost as good as taking drugs. We all sit around in cheap plastic chairs, and various people get up to share their bad week, rude fast-foodie, nasty in-laws, un-loving lover, and we all make supportive noises. There’s a core that’s really into this, emoting and swaying like they’re worshiping this god of disfigurement, and I bet they could get an Oscar. The rest of us . . . we’re just there. But there’s one kid I really like. Kitten. That’s what she calls herself. She’s about fourteen, got caught in a gang firebomb thing, isn’t as bad as me, but hey, she’s a girl, and it’s got to feel worse. She remembers when she was beautiful.

  I don’t. Didn’t. Not before today.

  We say hi. Her eyes are lavender and she always says she worries about me, and I think sometimes that she means it.

  After, I go home and check to see if daturk is around. She isn’t, but there’s a screen full of rose petals sprinkled over trampled plants with thorns. I don’t know. Ask her.

  I show up at the hospital and my key still works. This time, the arrow is orange and it leads me to this desk where a chunky North African type hurries me off to a private waiting room with one chair and a sofa. About ten minutes later, this guy in blue scrubs comes in, doesn’t look at me, but smiles so hard I worry about his mouth muscles as he hurries me through the labyrinth of corridors, through doors that swing ominously open into air locks ceilinged with the soft lavender glow of microbe killing ultra-UV. He leaves me in a plastic-walled cubicle, hands me the usual disposable hospital open-back, and tells me to strip. A nurse shows up – a she this time – who doesn’t look at me either, but at least doesn’t smile. She whacks my inner arm with a sprayjector and tells me it’ll be just a little while. It’s a heavy sedative. I start to buckle about thirty seconds after she leaves. Then there’s a gurney, kids in green who also don’t look at me, and before they’ve pushed me five minutes, the ceiling tiles are swimming across my field of vision. I don’t think I’m going to be there when they plug me into the anesthesia machine.

  I want to be there.

  I’m staring at white and someone is moaning, and I can feel someone wiping my mouth with something rough and scratchy and I can feel my drool, and I realize – sort of – that it’s me moaning, only I can’t access that me to stop it.

  I wake up slowly, clutching at this really cool dream of a big field with flowers in it, and I’m walking and just . . . feeling good. It’s a long dream. Too long, I think blurrily. I was talking to daturk, but I can’t remember what she was saying. She likes flowers. Time to go to work soon. Hope I’m not late . . . I try to scratch my nose and my arm won’t work.

  I wake up for real, adrenalin pumping through me because I can’t move, all I can see is white light, and where the hell am I? And I hear hurrying footsteps, the white light is a ceiling, and I remember where I am.

  Hospital. Strapped down. Tubes. My face is bandaged. It’s so damn familiar.

  The nurse or aide or whatever babbles at me, but I don’t listen. Just wait. There’s nothing to do but wait.

  I’m still sort of drifting in and out when the doc comes in, but it’s pretty soon, and he says something sharp to the nurse at the door, and then he’s leaning over so I can see his face, and that hand grabs my guts again because he’s smiling and his eyes are bright.

  It worked.

  “You’re coming along just fine.” He steps aside as two nurses in green scrubs, masks, and gloves move in to bustle around, unplugging drip lines and catheter, doing this and that, the things they do. Finally one reaches for my face and I clench up, because I still remember the pain way back then when they changed the dressings and none of the drugs really stopped it.

  But there’s no pain, not really, just a little prickly discomfort, and they’re not bandages on my face, but more like a gauze mask the shape of a face. The air feels icy cold on my skin, and it’s real tender. I think I can feel air molecules bumping against it.

  “Can I see?” The words come out a croak, and my throat is raw, so they must have had a tube down me.

  The doc hesitates. “It’s not finished,” he says slowly. “You have to understand that the process of growing many layers of tissue doesn’t happen in a few hours. This is just a break to let the new cellular grown stabilize and give you some time to regain a bit of muscle tone before the final session. You have an epidermal layer, but it’s temporary. We still have a ways to go.”

  One of the nurses holds a straw to my lips, I suck automatically and the taste of the bottled apples on my tongue brings back all the memories of the first time, but it’s sweet and soothes my raw throat. “I want to see,” I say when I’ve finished, and I sit up.

  Well, I try to.

  The room twirls around me and my stomach heaves and next thing I know hands are laying me back on the bed again and I’m clammy and cold and shaking.

  “Take it slow,” the doctor says, frowning at the bank of monitors next to my bed. Nothing is beeping anyway. I learned a long time ago that’s a good sign. “You’re going to have to get used to moving again. Don’t forget, you’ve been out for ten days.”

  “Ten days?”

  “It was in that document I sent you.” He raises an eyebrow at me, satisfied with whatever the monitors are telling him. “The one you read and retina-stamped? The first session is the longest. The second will finish up the regeneration, and then there will be only a few plastic modifications.”

  I wonder what else I didn’t read? No wonder the dream seemed to go on so long. And I’m gathering the strength to ask again, but he sticks a hand mirror in front of my face, a cheap import thing with a plastic rim and handle, like you might see in any dollar store in the neighborhood, and I look.

  I know it’s not done, but disappointment still stabs me right in the gut. But I make myself look. It’s a lot better. I’ve got ears now, sort of. And a nose. My face looks like . . . well, a face anyway. Not very pretty, but you won’t scream and faint if I run into you in a dark alley. No hair anywhere and the skin is real pink, like I’ve got sunburn or something. I let my breath out in a long sigh, trying to breathe all that disappointment out with it, because if he quit now, I’d still be a whole lot better off.

  I don’t want him to quit.

  “I want to give you a week to recover.” Doc is looking at me thoughtfully. “You should be able to be released by tomorrow morning.” He hesitates and he’s frowning a little. “Do you have somebody staying with you? Somebody who can look after you while you get your strength back?”

  I shake my head and I could swear that he relaxes a bit.

  “Tell you what.” He smiles. “Why don’t you be my guest? I’ve got plenty of room in my condo. That way I can keep a first-hand eye on my handiwork. And the building is secure, so we can keep the media from bothering you.”

  I start to say no, and it’s so automatic that it stops me and I swallow it. Why am I so quick? I study him for a minute, but I can’t put my finger on anything. He’s no Domino. I’m pretty sure of that. Maybe it’s just that . . . nobody does that. Just offers. No strings. He’s w
aiting, and I can see that he’s getting a little impatient, maybe offended because I didn’t jump at his offer. What the hell?

  “I’m . . . sorry.” I don’t have to pretend to be confused because I am. “That’s really . . . that’s nice of you.” I’m groping for the words I’m supposed to say, but hey, I’ve never really been in this situation before. “Thank you,” I finally say, feeling like a boob. But he smiles, his eyes happy.

  “That’s fine then. You rest, and I’ll come by to get you when I get ready to leave. I shouldn’t be here too late.” He looks at the nurse now, and I watch all the warmth vanish from his face. He gives her some instructions and I guess I’m supposed to go walk around later, but not too much, and there’s some med codes, too.

  He goes off and she goes off, but comes back in a little bit to bring me a cup full of pills and a lunch tray with hospital blah on it, Jell-O that looks like green plastic, some of that fake chicken soup, custard. It hasn’t changed since I was here the first time, and that was twenty years ago, when I was four. The first taste of custard brings it all back and I lay the spoon back on the tray and lean back, hoping that one of those pills is going to make me sleep. Without dreams.

  But it doesn’t. So I pull the bedside screen over and get online, and as soon as I get there, I get a screen full of bright flowers, like someone dropped about six bunches from a downtown flower stall on the floor. Bright red script written in a pointed slanty hand spells out the words, how u doin – sweet so far. It’s daturk’s online handwriting. I recognize it, wonder if she’s good enough that she’s really been hacking my med records or if she’s just guessing. I trace the words Doing sweet. Not done yet on the screen, watch the words take shape in black shaky script. It’s an effort to write that much and I want to let my hand fall. But I make the effort, and trace a few more letters: Doc invited me to stay with him. I said yes. And I’m not sure why I told her that, but all of a sudden it seems real important to know what she thinks about it. And it’s pointless to stare at the screen, because she may not get back to me for days. But right away, a crimson line starts to curve to life on the screen. I wait expectantly, but there are no words, just a fiery question mark glowing among all the spilled flowers and scattered petals.