Terry Pratchett - The Long War

“Joshua—”

“I think I can work it out. Lobsang?”

“Lobsang.”

“A stunt like this is just like him. And it was me who brought him in to see Agnes when she was dying. All my fault, probably. And now—well, here you are.”

“Joshua—”

“Hello, Agnes.” He threw his arms around her, until she burst out laughing and pushed him away.

For Agnes, IT had begun with a wakening. She had felt a gentle warmth, and a certain sense of pink .

She thought this over for an indeterminate time. The last thing she remembered was her own bed, in the Home, the murmuring of a priest. She said, more cautiously than hopefully, “And I am in heaven?”

“No. Heaven can wait,” said a male voice calmly. “We have more urgent matters to consider.”

Sister Agnes whispered (although she wasn’t sure how she whispered), “And will there be a band of angels?”

“Not exactly,” said the firmament. “But top marks for getting in a reference to the works of the late Jim Steinman in your first minute of revived consciousness. Now, alas, you must sleep again.” And darkness returned to cover the firmament, and as it faded the firmament said, “Amazing…”

What was most amazing was that all this was spoken in Tibetan. And that she understood .

More time passed.

“Agnes? I have to wake you again for a little while, just for calibration…”

That was when they showed Agnes her new body: pink, naked, raw, and very female.

“Who ordered those ?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Look—even before my bosom headed south for the winter, I assure you it wasn’t that size. Can you please tone it down a little?”

“Don’t worry. All things are mutable. If you will bear with us, we will eventually be able to present you with a suite of bodies for all occasions. All prosthetic, of course. You’ll certainly pass as human; things have got a lot more sophisticated since I began my own experiments. Although quite a lot of you, technically speaking, will not be human. Incidentally you are being attended by a number of surgeons and other medical personnel in the pay of a little-known subsidiary of the Black Corporation. They have no idea of your identity. Fun, isn’t it?”

“Fun?” Suddenly Agnes knew exactly who was doing this to her. “Lobsang! You bastard!”

The dark rose up again. But her anger stayed: the anger she had always looked on as an ally, anger that filled her up. She clung to that heat now.

Eventually the pinkness returned.

And the voice of Lobsang spoke again, gently. “My apologies once more, but this is a very delicate procedure—what you might call the endgame. I have been working on your revival for three years, and now it’s nearly done. Sister Agnes, dear Agnes, you have nothing to fear. Indeed I expect to meet you in person after breakfast tomorrow. While you wait, would you care for some music?”

“Not more bloody John Lennon.”

“No, no. Knowing your taste—what is your position on the works of Bonnie Tyler?”

Sister Agnes woke up yet again, bewildered. Bewildered, and smelling coffee and bacon and eggs.

The scent emanated from a tray close by the bed on which she lay, evidently placed there by a young lady—bespectacled, friendly, Asiatic, perhaps Japanese. “There is no hurry, madam. Take your time. My name is Hiroe. Please ask for anything you desire.”

In fact coming back to life seemed to get easier as it went along. With Hiroe’s help she made her way to the bathroom of what appeared to be a bland hotel suite, took a shower, stared at her perfect teeth in the mirror, and voided her bowels of nothing very much.

Hiroe said, “You should find physical matters easy. We took your body through many basic processes while you were in deep sleep. Training it, so to speak. Would you be so kind as to walk up and down for a while, and tell me what you feel?”

Sister Agnes did indeed walk around, and gave her report. She tasted the coffee, which wasn’t bad at all, and was surprised to find that the bacon was crisp to the point of charcoal, just as she had always liked it.

And then there was a closet full of clothing, including a habit of the kind she had worn for so many years. She hesitated. As a Catholic nun somewhat estranged from her Church’s orthodoxy, if she had been uncertain of her theological status before all this , she was bewildered now. But she had made her vows long ago, and she supposed they still applied, so she donned the garment. And as she dressed she smiled, enjoying the surcease of old-age pain in every joint, a feeling of liberty of movement long forgotten.

She said to the Japanese girl, “I imagine I have an appointment with Lobsang himself?”

Hiroe laughed. “Well done! He said that you would be quick to get to the point. If you would kindly follow me…”

Agnes followed the girl along a steel-walled corridor, passed through a series of doors which opened and closed with a certain automated panache, and was ushered into a room full of books and antique furnishings—it might have been Charles Darwin’s study, down to the blazing fire in an antique hearth. But it was a place Agnes recognized, from Joshua’s description of a similar experience. Lobsang chic, it seemed.

Across the room was a swivel chair, heavily stuffed, with its back to her.

She snapped, “It’s fake, isn’t it? The fire. Joshua told me about it. He said it wasn’t randomized properly.”

There was no answer from the swivel chair.

“Now listen to me. I don’t know whether I should be incredibly grateful, or incredibly angry—”

“But this is what Joshua asked for on your behalf,” a cultured voice replied at last. “Or so I inferred. I was brought to see you when you were ill—do you remember? In the Home, in Madison West 5. You had already been given the last rites. You were suffering, Agnes.”

“I’m not about to forget that.”

“And Joshua asked me to ease that suffering. Surely you would have wanted that—”

“Joshua. Of course he’d come.” Of all the children she’d cared for in her years in the Home, Joshua Valienté had always been the most—remarkable. It was typical of him never to have forgotten, not to have stayed away—to have come back when she needed him most, as her life, after too many decades, guttered like a fading candle. Come back to try to put things right. “Joshua would ask for help. I suppose you weren’t about to refuse him.”

“No. Especially as he asked me through gritted teeth; we did rather fall out after the Madison incident.”

“But he was surely merely asking you to ease my way. I would never have expected this—blasphemy!”

Now at last the chair swivelled, and Lobsang faced her, in an orange robe, his head apparently shaved. She’d seen him in person only once before, and she remembered that face—eerie, not quite the human norm, of no clearly identifiable age, like the reconstructed face of a burns victim perhaps. She remembered her own reflection; her new mechanical carcass was better quality than this . Evidently she was a later model.

He asked, “Blasphemy? Must we talk in such terms?”

“Then in what terms do you want to talk?”

“Perhaps about the reason I… brought you back.”

“Reason? What reason could there possibly be?”

“Oh, a very good one. I would be very pleased if you would rise to this unusual occasion and consider a proposition—a new purpose, which I believe will accord with your own disposition. Will you hear me out?”

Sister Agnes took a seat in an almost identical overstuffed chair, opposite him.

“How are you finding your body, by the way?”