Blushing reminded her she had a body. Remembering she had a body made her remember that she’d deadheaded, parked herself because of the cancer. That hadn’t been imaginary. Parked herself after a tearful party with the boys: big, pimply teenagers; and Gretyl, old and sad and trying so hard not to show it; and her friends. Cordelia had been there, had left the walled city she and Dad lived in, snuck in a screen that Dad’s face appeared on, live-linked. He’d said urgent and desperate things that made her cry. She couldn’t remember them.
She’d deadheaded. Now she was awake. In a room. She strained to look around. It was dim. It smelled nice. Like a forest, with a hint of scented steam. Like there was an onsen nearby. Sulfur, eucalyptus. She was on a hospital bed with rails. She saw light cast by infographics on its sides, cast on the dark floor – stone? – around it. A window, crack of sunlight at the bottom of its blinds. She checked in with her body, found it didn’t hurt. Such a relief she nearly cried. It had hurt a lot, before deadheading. All the time, all over.
She squeezed her hands together and they felt... weird. Why weird? She couldn’t say. Footsteps approached. The door opened. When it did she got the room’s dimensions. It was about the size of the bedroom she’d shared with Gretyl. She smelled onsen smells, stronger and sharper. Her skin ached for water and steam. She wanted to sit up, but should she?
There was a person in the door. A man. Walking toward her. Smiling. Bearded. Young. Wearing something weird, slippery-looking, tight. She could actually see the outline of his balls. It was a singular garment. It could have come off a runway a century ago, or off a printer fifty years after she went to sleep. How long had it been?
The man smiled. She felt vertigo. That face was familiar. It was impossible. She smelled him, a pleasant smell she remembered from so many nights and days together on so many roads.
She almost laughed as she said it: “Hubert Vernon Rudolph Clayton Irving Wilson Alva Anton Jeff Harley Timothy Curtis Cleveland Cecil Ollie Edmund Eli Wiley Marvin Ellis Espinoza.” She laughed. He laughed with her. Any thought she’d had that this was Etcetera’s son or clone or robot were dispelled by the laugh.
“How the actual fuck.”
He held out his hands, smooth and unwrinkled and not dead.
“Like it?”
She took his hand. It was warm, young and vital. She held it to her cheek. She cried on the hand.
“How?” She looked at his hands, smooth and unmarked.
“Same as you.” The vertigo was back, hard. The room did a slow roll with her in the center. The reason his hand was so smooth was her hand was so smooth. That was why it felt weird. It was her hand, but it was new. She ran her hands over her body, probed places where she’d unconsciously dreaded surgical scars or bags, squeezed the muscles of her feet and legs and ass, touched her face. Stared at her hands again.
“No way.”
“Took thirty years. Bodies were easier, came out of organ-growing stuff. But brains, getting the scans back into them, that was hard.” He tapped his head. “It’s impossible to say whether it worked. But I feel like me.”
She touched his arm, his stomach. “You do.” She touched her lips, ears, eyes, throat. “I do, too.” She swallowed. “I guess.”
She used him to pull herself into a sitting position. It didn’t feel like she’d been sleeping. It felt like nothing she’d felt before. Like being born again. Her skin tingled. It felt amazing.
“Gretyl?”
He frowned. “We’re working on her. Died five years ago. Left a scan. Hoping to have her in a year, two at most. We’re growing the body quick as we can.”
Her mouth was open. She closed it. “Stan? Jacob?”
“They stopped having bodies ten years ago.” He shrugged. “Kids. They’re waiting to talk to you. I think they want to talk you into giving up on the body, joining them. They’re offworld, most of the time. They entangle a lot, with each other and others. Gives me the fucking willies. That’s the next generation’s job, right? No matter how hard you try, the little fuckers always generation-gap you.”
She swung her feet over the edge, let them touch the floor. It was tile, maybe slate. Every seam crackled through her nervous system. It was a sensation between ticklish and being on orgasm’s edge. She clutched at his arm, vertigo and joy warring.
“I smell an onsen.”
“We built another B&B. It’s totally retro. Limpopo is waiting for us. Both of them, actually.”
Her mouth was open again. “Two of them?”
“It’s frowned upon. But no one gives either of them any shit about it. And only one of them talks to me.”
She stood, letting the sheet slip away from her, leaving her naked. She felt air on her skin. It was so intense she nearly sat again, but kept her grip on his arm.
“Enjoy it. You’d be amazed at how quickly you get over it. Normal is hard to resist. Everything becomes default, no matter how new.”
He led her down the hallway.
They passed other people, who smiled, said hello in a variety of accents. Some looked familiar, older versions of the people she’d known. Some looked like younger versions. She could have sworn one was Tam, but impossibly young. A teenager. Cousin? Daughter? Tam?
They paused at the heavy, salt-crusted onsen door, thick wood planks that transpired scented, warm air. He hugged her. She hugged him back.
“Welcome home,” he said.
We hope you enjoyed this book.
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Acknowledgements
About Cory Doctorow
Also by Cory Doctorow
An Invitation from the Publisher
Acknowledgments
This book could never have been written without the influence of Rebecca Solnit’s A Paradise Built in Hell, David Graeber’s Debt: The First 5,000 Years and Thomas Piketty’s “Capital in the Twenty-First Century.”
Thanks to Alice (of course!), Steven Brust, Scott Westerfeld, Barton Gellman, Patrick Ball, John Gilmore, Roz Doctorow, Noah Swartz, Biella Coleman, Mitch Altman, Quinn Norton, Jo Walton, Kim Stanley Robinson, Vladimir Verano and Third Place Books, Madeline and McNally Jackson Books, the ACLU’s Ben Wizner, Jeremy Bornstein, William Gibson, Edward Snowden, and Eleanor Saitta.
Thanks as always to my agent, Russell Galen, and my editor, Patrick Nielsen Hayden, who made this better by supporting me without ever letting me off the hook. Thank you to Tom Doherty for his contributions to science fiction, to publishing, and to literature – and for all the many gracious conversations he has afforded me over our long and fruitful association.
About Cory Doctorow
CORY DOCTOROW is a science fiction author, activist, journalist and blogger – the co-editor of Boing Boing and the author of many books: most recently In Real Life, a graphic novel; Information Doesn’t Want to Be Free, a book about earning a living in the Internet age; and Homeland, the award-winning, bestselling sequel to the 2008 YA novel Little Brother. Cory has been on the frontline of international debates on privacy, copyright and freedom of information for over a decade.