Greg Bear: Blood Music

she unexpectedly sobbed and gulped it back

yes, it was she could feel it

—the last night of the world.

“Whew,” she said, spreading the gown and sitting on one of the table chairs. She wiped her eyes. That had snuck up on her. She was just being crazy. Stupid, as always.

Not afraid, though.

Accepting.

The wardrobe door creaked and she turned to look at it, half expecting to see Narnia behind the clothes. (She had liked the apartment—the flat—right away, because of the wardrobe.)

It was snowing inside the wardrobe. Flecks of light moved over the clothes. She shivered and stood up slowly, straightened out her gown, and one step at a time approached the wardrobe. Confetti light played over the interior, the wood at the back, the clothes, even the hangers.

She pulled the door open wider and looked at herself in the mirror. Behind the glass, she was surrounded by bright bubbles of light, like millions of ginger ale sparkles.

Suzy leaned forward. The face in the mirror was not hers, exactly. She touched her lips, then reached up and met finger tips old, glassy—with the image.

The cold and glassy faded. The finger tips became warm.

Suzy backed away until she came up against the chair.

The image stepped out of the mirror, smiling at her.

Not just herself. Her mother, too. Her grandmother. And maybe great grandmother, and great-great. Mostly Suzy, but them, also. All in one. They smiled at her.

Suzy reached behind to zip the dress higher. The image held her arms open and she was mostly Suzy’s mother and Suzy ran forward and buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, against the green velvety strap of the gown. She didn’t cry.

“Let’s use the wardrobe,” she said, her voice muffled.

The image—more Suzy now—shook her head and took Suzy by the hand. Then Suzy remembered. When the transformed city had gone away, leaving her stranded-after she had refused to go with Cary and everybody else-she had felt twinned .

They had copied her. Xeroxed her.

Taken the copy with them, just in case.

And now they had brought her back to meet the original Suzy. The copy had changed, and changed wonderfully. She was all Suzy, and all her mother, and all the others individually, but together .

The image led Suzy toward the rear wall of the flat, away from the window. They stood up on the bed, smiling at each other.

Ready? the image asked silently.

Suzy looked back over her shoulder at the buzzing snow, then felt the warm, solid grip. How many handshakes from someone in America?

Why, no handshake at all.

“Are we going to be slow, where we’re going?” Suzy asked.

No, the image mouthed, entirely Suzy now. Suzy could see it in her eyes. Cary had been right. They fixed people.

“Good. I’m awful tired of being slow.”

The image held up her hand, and together they ripped away the wallpaper. It was easy. The wall just opened up and the paper just curled away.

There was snow beyond the wall, but not like the snow beyond the window. This snow was for more beautiful.

There must have been a million flakes for everyone alive. Everyone dancing together.

“We’re not going to use the wardrobe?” Suzy asked.

It doesn’t go where we’re going, the image said. Together, they hunkered down, get ready, get set—

And sprang from the bed, through the opening in the wall.

The building trembled, as if somewhere a big door had slammed. In the night, the burning flakes of snow danced their Brownian dance. The black clouds above became transparent, and Suzy saw all directions at once. It was a delightful and scary way to see.

The storm abated just before dawn. The earth was very quiet as the hemisphere of darkness passed away.

The day began fitfully, casting along gray-orange glow on the waveless ocean and still land. Concentric rings of light fled from the dimming sun.

Suzy looked a long ways outward. (She was so tiny, and yet she could see everywhere, see very big things!)

The inner planets cast long shadows through an enveloping haze. The outer planets wavered in their orbits, and then blossomed in kaleidoscopic splendor, extending cold luminous arms to welcome their prodigal moons home.

The Earth, for the space of along, trembling sigh, held together in the maelstrom. When its time came, the cities, towns and villages—the homes and huts and tents—were as empty as shed cocoons.

The Noosphere shook loose its wings. Where the wings touched, the stars themselves danced, celebrated, became burning flakes of snow.

Michael Bernard, nineteen and yet not, sat in the Klamshak opposite Olivia. Over their booth hung the weary blowfish and plastic lobster and cork floats, not very original.

She had just told him about the break-up of her engagement.

He looked down at the table, sensing a very different potential between them now. The way had been cleared.

“Good dinner,” Olivia said, folding her hands behind her plate, strewn with oyster shells and shrimp tails. Thank you. I was very glad when you called.”

“I just felt silly,” Bernard said. “I acted like a real ninny last time.”

“No. You were very gallant.”

“Gallant Hm.” He laughed.

“I’m okay, really. It was a shock at first, but…”

“It must have been.”

“You know, when he told me, I just thought of coming back to school and getting on with things. Like breaking an engagement was nothing at all. It only hurt when he left. And then I thought of you.”

“Will you give me another chance?”

Olivia smiled. “Only if you can keep me feeling as good as I do now.”

Nothing is lost. Nothing is forgotten.

It was in the blood, the flesh,

And now it is forever.

My sincere appreciation to Andrew Edward Dizon, Ph.D., John Graves. Ph.D., Dr. Richard Dutton, Monte Wetzel, and Dr. Percy Russel for access to their laboratories and their valuable time and help. For special details, thanks also to Marian McLean at the World Trade Center and Herbert Quelle at the German Consulate in Los Angeles, as well as Ellen Datlow, Melissa Singer, and Andy Porter.

John F. Carr and David Brin suggested that the original short story should become a novel, some years ago. Stanley Schmidt, in his capacity as editor at Analog , suggested I should work out the original idea in more detail and see if it was more than just a fantasy. Beth Meacham expressed editorial enthusiasm for the proposed novel and provided crucial support and encouragement.

While dropping by a San Diego convention on Hybridoma and Scale-Up research, I spotted Vergil I. Ulam’s red Volvo sports car in the hotel parking lot. At this moment he is a young graduate student looking for part-time employment.

GREG BEAR is the author of over twenty-seven books of science fiction and fantasy. He has been awarded two Hugo and five Nebula Awards for his fiction, one of two authors to win a Nebula in every category.

He has been called the “best working writer of science fiction” by The Ultimate Encyclopedia of Science Fiction . His novel Darwin’s Radio , published by Ballantine Books, won the Nebula Award for “Best Novel of 2000,” and was honored with the prestigious Endeavor Award.

He is married to Astrid Anderson Bear. They are the parents of two children, Erik and Alexandra.