David Marusek: Getting to Know You

Zoranna was appalled. Nevertheless, she realized that if she’d opened her archives earlier, they’d be through this imprinting phase by now.

She followed Bug’s pedway directions to Nancy’s block. Sub40 corridors were decorated in cheerless colors and lit with harsh, artificial light—biolumes couldn’t live underground. There were no grand promenades, no parks or shops. There was a dank odor of decay, however, and chilly ventilation.

On Nancy’s corridor, Zoranna watched two people emerge from a door and come her way. They moved with the characteristic shuffle of habitually deferred body maintenance. They wore dark clothing impossible to date and, as they passed, she saw that they were crying. Tears coursed freely down their withered cheeks. To Zoranna’s distress, she discovered they’d just emerged from her sister’s apartment.

“You’re sure this is it?” she said, standing before the door marked S40 G6879.

“Affirmative,” Bug said.

Zoranna fluffed her hair with her fingers and straightened her skirt. “Door, announce me.”

“At once, Zoe,” replied the door.

Several moments later, the door slid open, and Nancy stood there supporting herself with an aluminum walker. “Darling Zoe,” she said, balancing herself with one hand and reaching out with the other.

Zoranna stood a moment gazing at her baby sister before entering her embrace. Nancy had let herself go completely. Her hair was brittle grey, she was pale to the point of bloodless, and she had doubled in girth. When they kissed, Nancy’s skin gave off a sour odor mixed with lilac.

“What a surprise!” Nancy said. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“I did. Several times.”

“You did? You called?” Nancy looked upset. “I told him there was something wrong with the houseputer, but he didn’t believe me.”

Someone appeared behind Nancy, a handsome man with wild, curly, silver hair. “Who’s this? ” he said in an authoritative baritone. He looked Zoranna over. “You must be Zoe,” he boomed. “What a delight!” He stepped around Nancy and drew Zoranna to him in a powerful hug. He stood at least a head taller than she. He kissed her eagerly on the cheek. “I am Victor. Victor Vole. Come in, come in. Nancy, you would let your sister stand in the hall?” He drew them both inside.

Zoranna had prepared herself for a small apartment, but not this small, and for castoff furniture, but not a room filled floor to ceiling with hospital beds. It took several long moments for her to comprehend what she was looking at. There were some two dozen beds in the three-by-five-meter living room. Half were arranged on the floor, and the rest clung upside-down to the ceiling. They were holograms, she quickly surmised, separate holos arranged in snowflake fashion, that is, six individual beds facing each other and overlapping at the foot. What’s more, they were occupied by obviously sick, possibly dying, strangers. Other than the varied lighting from the holoframes, the living room was unlit. What odd pieces of real furniture it contained were pushed against the walls. In the corner, a hutch intended to hold bric-a-brac was apparently set up as a shrine to a saint. A row of flickering votive candles illuminated an old flatstyle picture of a large, barefoot man draped head to foot in flowing robes.

“What the hell, Nancy?” Zoranna said.

“This is my work,” Nancy said proudly.

“Please,” said Victor, escorting them from the door. “Let’s talk in the kitchen. We’ll have dessert. Are you after dinner, Zoe?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Zoranna. “I ate on the tube.” She was made to walk through a suffering man’s bed; there was no path around him to the kitchen. “Sorry,” she said. But he seemed accustomed to his unfavorable location and closed his eyes while she passed through.

The kitchen was little more than an alcove separated from the living room by a counter. There was a bed squeezed into it as well, but the occupant, a grizzled man with open mouth, was either asleep or comatose. “I think Edward will be unavailable for some while,” Victor said. “Houseputer, delete this hologram. Sorry, Edward, but we need the space.” The holo vanished, and Victor offered Zoranna a stool at the counter. “Please,” he said, “will you have tea? Or a thimble of cognac?”

“Thank you,” Zoranna said, perching herself on the stool and crossing her legs, “tea would be fine.” Her sister ambulated into the kitchen and flipped down her walker’s built-in seat, but before she could sit, a mournful wail issued from the bedroom.

“Naaaancy,” cried the voice, its gender uncertain. “Nancy, I need you.”

“Excuse me,” Nancy said.

“I’ll go with you,” Zoranna said and hopped off the stool.

The bedroom was half the size of the living room and contained half the number of holo beds, plus a real one against the far wall. Zoranna sat on it. There was a dresser, a recessed closet, a bedside night table. Expensive-looking men’s clothing hung in the closet. A pair of men’s slippers was parked under the dresser. And a holo of a soccer match was playing on the night table. Tiny players in brightly colored jerseys swarmed over a field the size of a doily. The sound was off.

Zoranna watched Nancy sit on her walker seat beneath a bloat-faced woman bedded upside down on the ceiling. “What exactly are you doing with these people?”

“I listen mostly,” Nancy replied. “I’m a volunteer hospice attendant.”

“A volunteer? What about the—” she tried to recall Nancy’s most recent paying occupation, “—the hairdressing?”

“I haven’t done that for years,” Nancy said dryly. “As you may have noticed, it’s difficult for me to be on my feet all day.”

“Yes, in fact, I did notice,” said Zoranna. “Why is that? I’ve sent you money.”

Nancy ignored her, looked up at the woman, and said, “I’m here, Mrs. Hurley. What seems to be the problem?”

Zoranna examined the holos. As in the living room, each bed was a separate projection, and in the corner of each frame was a network squib and trickle meter. All of this interactive time was costing someone a pretty penny.

The woman saw Nancy and said, “Oh, Nancy, thank you for coming. My bed is wet, but they won’t change it until I sign a permission form, and I don’t understand.”

“Do you have the form there with you, dear?” said Nancy. “Good, hold it up.” Mrs. Hurley held up a slate in trembling hands. “Houseputer,” Nancy said, “capture and display that form.” The document was projected against the bedroom wall greatly oversized. “That’s a permission form for attendant-assisted suicide, Mrs. Hurley. You don’t have to sign it unless you want to.”

The woman seemed frightened. “Do I want to, Nancy?”

Victor stood in the doorway. “No!” he cried. “Never sign!”

“Hush, Victor,” Nancy said.

He entered the room, stepping through beds and bodies. “Never sign away your life. Mrs. Hurley.” The woman appeared even more frightened. “We’ve returned to Roman society,” he bellowed. “Masters and servants! Plutocrats and slaves! Oh, where is the benevolent middle class when we need it?”

“Victor,” Nancy said sternly and pointed to the door. And she nodded to Zoranna, “You too. Have your tea. I’ll join you.”

Zoranna followed Victor to the kitchen, sat at the counter, and watched him set out cups and saucers, sugar and soybimi lemon. He unwrapped and sliced a dark cake. He was no stranger to this kitchen.

“It’s a terrible thing what they did to your sister,” he said.

“Who? What?”

He poured boiling water into the pot. “Teaching was her life.”

“Teaching?” Zoranna said, incredulous. “You’re talking about something that ended thirty years ago.”