DAW 30th Anniversary Science Fiction Part 30

Steve insisted on coming with her. She tried to get him to stay home with the children, to let a friend take her to the Time clinic, but he wouldn't hear of it. Bless his stubborn, loving heart.

He even canceled a business trip to San Diego to make sure he could be home the day before ... in case her floundering courage called for husbandly support. And it did. She wasn't crying anymore, but she spent a lot of time that day in his arms, trying to take comfort from his presence while not letting the children sense how very scared she was.

They did, though. Children are like that. Amy even picked up enough from conversations she overheard to ask if Mommy was doing Time. For a moment Marian didn't know what to say. There was no way to lie that Amy wouldn't eventually catch on to, if Marian was going tohave to do Time every month. At the same time . . . she was too young. She wouldn't understand. She shouldn't have to understand, not at this phase in her life.

"Mommy's going to see Grandma," she said at last. Kneeling down to meet her eye to eye, willing all the calm sincerity into her voice that she could manage. "She's going to give Grandma some Time so she can feel better."

"Will she get better then?" the child asked.

For a moment Marian couldn't speak. Finally she whispered, Probably not, sweetheart. But this will make the sickness hurt less."

No more questions. Thank G.o.d. Maybe Amy had enough of a child's innate intuitive sense to understand that Marian had no more answers. Not now, anyway.

She'll ask again. The boys will grow up and they will ask. What words will you give them, that a child can understand? Or will you put it off until it's too late, and they have to learn the truth in school, on the street . . . from strangers? What will you do then?

The world has changed. This is part of it, now. You can't shield them from it forever.

Later. She would deal with that later. One thing at a time . . .

Ms Stiller?

Darkness. Soft darkness. Voices muted as if through cotton, distant whispers.

Are you all right, Ms. Stiller?

Were they talking to her, the cotton voices? It took her a minute to process that thought.

"I'm . . . I'm all right."

You're going to feel strange for a little while. That's normal. Try to relax.

"I'm . . . I'm trying."

You understand what is happening, yes? It's all been explained to you?

Why was it so hard to think? Was that because of the drugs they had given her, or her own fear? Strange, how the fear seemed distant now. Like somebody else's emotion, a thing to be observed rather than absorbed. "They told me."

Her heart was beeping on some monitor. She could hear it through the cotton as they spoke to her. Steady, even beeps.

It's going to feel like you're falling asleep. There may be a sense of falling away from your own body. That's just an illusion, you understand? It comes from the drugs we use.

Your mind isn't leaving your body, ever.

"Body and soul an indivisible alliance." Did she say that aloud? The drugs were making it hard to think. Where had that phrase come from, some propaganda leaflet? She couldn't remember.

That's right, Ms. Stiller. She could hear people moving around her, but she couldn't make out what they were doing. Was her heartbeat usually that slow? They had given her tranquilizers because she'd asked for them, but she'd never had drugs that felt this strange before. Pinp.r.i.c.ks of electricity tickled her scalp. Were those the contacts they had inserted? She could hear her heart skip a beat. Body and soul are a unit, they can't he divided. What we're going to do is create an illusion that it's otherwise . . . but it's only that, an illusion. You're going to sleep for a while-at least, that's what it will feel like-but you'll still be here, inside your own flesh."Yes, I ... I understand . . . sort of . . ."

Your mother will get feedback from your sensory contacts. She'll be able to send messages to the parts of your brain that control movement. But she won't actually be inside you, you understand? Just . . . suggesting motions, and observing the world through your senses.

Again her heartbeat quickened. The fear was a distant thing, muted by drugs. Wonderful drugs. They could tailor emotions these days like you tailored a suit. A hit short in the terror, he careful. Look, the sides of the dread don't match. It needs to he calmer or it won't fit.

"It will be like she's in my body."

For her. Yes. One of the contacts moved a bit. Being adjusted? For you . . . it will be like sleep. You may dream a hit, not whole dreams hut hits and pieces, feedback from your brain chemistry, as your body interacts with the world. You understand?

Thank G.o.d Diane had agreed to watch the children. Thank G.o.d. One less thing to worry about as she prepared to give over control of her body to someone else. Diane would know how to handle the children. She knew Marian and Steve well enough to know that while they were here, dealing with all this mad scientist machinery, they didn't want someone else explaining things to Amy and the boys. No, that was something parents should do themselves.

She remembered how her mother had explained this process to her. She'd thought it was a bad thing. Children shouldn't owe their parents their bodies.

But you didn't know then how helpless you'd he, did you, Mom? Or how much a few borrowed hours might mean?

There was a tear in her eye. Trickling down her cheek. She tried to reach up a hand to wipe it away, but her arm didn't respond to her anymore.

Her mother would have done this for her, had she been crippled. Would have given over her body to her child so that Marian could live a normal day. Twenty-four hours without pain, without handicaps, without weakness. Twenty-four hours in the body of a loved one. The ultimate gift.

Relax. Ms. Stiller. Calm footsteps. Heart beeps. Other sounds, hospital sounds. She tried to let go, not to listen. The cotton helped. We're going to initiate transfer now.

The first time is always the hardest, they had told her. Like labor. Yes. The second child was easier. The youngest drew rainbows. Bright colors, youthful colors. Age was gray and blue, her mother had said, cooled by time, softened about the edges. A sudden sadness filled her heart, and brought fresh tears to her eyes. She missed red, suddenly. She missed the oranges and umbers of autumn in the mountains. The trees changed here, but it wasn't the same. She knew the sunlight was gold, but it didn't feel gold anymore. Ca.s.sie had brought flowers to the clinic, beautiful flowers, but all the smells she remembered from her youth were gone. She wanted to smell the flowers again. Leaves like precious velvet, she wanted to touch them, to feel the golden sunlight upon her face . . .

Why was she crying? She knew what the sunlight was like. Where was the sorrow coming from? A sudden bolt of fear lanced through her, and the steady rhythm of the heart monitor began to quicken. Someone else's thoughts- She could feel hands upon her, but just barely. Easy, Ms. Stiller. Easy. We're almost there.

The hands faded away then, and with it all the sounds of the room. A soft roaring filled her ears that seemed to have no source. She could feel herself being drawn out of her body and shetried to fight . . . but she didn't want to fight . . . soft panic wrapped in cotton, oh so distant.

Someone else's panic. Someone else's body . . .

She drifted into Downtime slowly, never knowing when the transition took place. Just like sleep. People didn't fear sleeping, did they?

Waterfalls. Splashing on the skin, scouring body and spirit-Turning up her face into the rain, laughing to feel it trickle into her nose. Glorious rain and a crown of strawberries.

G.o.d, the smell is sweet! So many layers to savor! Redness and freshness and sweetness and tartness all mixed up together, and she can taste each one. Crimson slichness down her back, tartness frothing in the waterfall as she laughs.

Youth is gold, her mother had said. Wonderful gold, that tastes like chocolate sprinkles on the tongue. Veins of gold filtering the sunlight into speckled networks of color-yellow, orange, red, green. The colors of youth, of life. Drink in the color. Roll the orange around on your tongue. Red is pepper and spice, that stings the nose. Sunlight is chocolate.

Wonderful chocolate! Waterfalls are blue, not dull aged blue but the clear blue of a morning sky. The water smells of strawberries as it washes away all shame and despair. Who would have thought that a simple thing could bring so much joy?

"Marian?"

She could feel the images parting like mist as she struggled toward the surface, toward consciousness. Strange images, like and unlike dreams. Where had they come from? The doctors had said that Time was no more than biological remote control, that the best of all their science could not put two minds in contact with one another directly. Marian wasn't so sure of that anymore.

"Marian?"

"Yes." She gasped the word, then opened her eyes. The clinic room came into focus slowly. "Steve?"

He squeezed her hand. The sensation helped her focus again. "You okay?"

"Yes." She drew in a deep breath, trembling, and let it out slowly. "Yes, I ... I think so. Is it ... is it over?"

He nodded.

She managed to sit up and leaned against him, weakly. Her skin felt very fresh and clean.

Her hair smelled of strawberries. Shampoo? She touched the soft strands in wonderment.

"Did you . . . did you see her?" she asked him.

He shook his head as one of the nurses answered. "It's not allowed until later, Ms. Stiller.

When you're both accustomed to the process, then other people can be involved. For now . . .

only staff."

It felt strangely difficult to speak . . . but that was just illusion, right? Marian hadn't been permanently disconnected from anything in her body. "What did my mother ... I mean ..."

The nurse smiled indulgently. "What did she do, Ms. Stiller? Is that what you want to ask?"

She nodded.

The nurse picked up a tablet and tapped it until it showed the text she wanted. "From nine a.m. to one p.m., your mother worked with our staff to help fine-tune her contacts. Full sensory transfer was confirmed at 1:13." A smile flickered across her face. "She promptlyasked us to bring her a cannoli, with chocolate sprinkles on it. All proper cannoli have chocolate sprinkles, she a.s.sured us."

"Go on," she said softly.

"She then took a long shower. And went for a walk in the gardens. Our people accompanied her, of course. She won't be allowed to go about alone until you're both more accustomed to the transfer. According to my notes she spent a long time searching out leaves on the ground, and holding them up to the sunlight and staring at them."

"It's autumn." She could feel her voice shaking as she spoke. "The colors ... all the gold ..." She shut her eyes and remembered the colors she had known in her dream. The sheer joy of seeing them. Is that what I gave you?

"She had . . . the usual dinner." The nurse smiled. "A sampler of all the salty and spicy things she's normally not allowed to have. Nothing for you to worry about, Ms. Stiller." She looked down at her notes, and her eyes narrowed in puzzlement. "Then it says . . . she took a shower again?"

Marian whispered, "I understand." Steve put an arm around her shoulders as she trembled.

That's the worst part of all, her mother had told her once. When you can't even wash yourself. That's when you feel like it's all over, like you're not really living anymore, just waiting to die.

She leaned against Steve and tried to be calm. It was over now, at least the first Time. Why did she want so badly to cry in his arms? There wasn't anything of her mother inside her, not anymore. Science couldn't do that. Isn't that what they'd told her?

Time was only an illusion. No direct mental contact was possible. ? !? real sharing.

"Is there anything else?" Steve asked quietly.

"Yes." The nurse went to a table by the window and picked something up. "She wanted you to have this. She said you would understand."

She held it out to Marian, a small pink object that seemed to have no weight at all. It took Marian a moment to realize what it was. When she did she exhaled slowly, taking the fragile tissue flower into her hand. Every fold so perfectly made, every ply so perfectly separated. For a moment she couldn't speak, could only stare at the thing. Then she whispered, "Can I see her now?"

The nurse shook her head. "She's asleep right now, Ms. Stiller. The first Time is always exhausting. Why don't you come back tomorrow?"

"Of course." She whispered it, staring at the rose. "Tell her . . . tell her ... I understand.

Please."

"I will, Ms. Stiller."

"Tell her ..." She drew in a deep breath, searching for the right words. There were none.

"Tell her I love her," she said at last. It fell far short of all that she needed to say . . . but that was all right. Her mother would understand.

The tears didn't start to flow until they were in the car.

Home. Thank G.o.d. Normalcy.

She drew in a deep breath on the porch while Steve opened the door. Letting go of all the tension, all the relief, everything she'd cried about on the long ride home. It was all right ifSteve saw mat-he'd married her for better or for worse-but she wouldn't bring it home to her children.

She felt different somehow. No, that wasn't right. She felt as if she should be different, and kept poking around inside her own consciousness to figure out where the difference was.

Sharing a body with someone was the ultimate intimacy. Could you do that and not be changed by it? Could someone use your body and brain for a whole day and not leave her mark somewhere inside you, etched into one biochemical pathway or another?

Diane came running to the door as it opened, saw she was all right, and hugged her.

"You're okay!"

"Of course I'm okay." She still had the tissue rose in her hand, and hugging Diane back without crushing it was no small feat "The children? "

"Mark and Simon are asleep. Amy's in the kitchen. I thought you wouldn't want them to wait up for you."

Children in bed. Good. Soon she'd put Amy to bed herself, and that would be normal too.

Rhythms of life, rea.s.serting themselves. She needed that right now.

She managed to wriggle out of her jacket without crushing the tissue flower. She could hear the dog barking from the backyard, recognizing their voices, begging to be let back in. Steve grinned as he hung up their coats and then went out to get him.

"No problems?" Marian asked, as they walked toward the kitchen. She wanted to hear it again. Wanted to savor the taste of the words.

"Nothing, really."

Was there an edge to her voice, a hint of uncertainty? Marian looked up sharply. "What?

What is it? Did something happen?"

Diane hesitated. "She asked about it, Marian. They all did, but the boys gave up after I just rea.s.sured them that you were okay. Amy . . . didn't. Children hear things, you know. They worry."

Marian felt a chill of dread seep into her heart. She can't understand this. She's too young.

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her she'd have to wait for you to get home if she wanted more information. I know how much you wanted to be the ones to explain all this! She just. . . she wanted to know if a few things were true. Stories she'd heard from other children. Most of them weren't true, and they were pretty scary. She just needed ... rea.s.surance." Diane bit her lip as she watched her for reaction . . * somewhat nervously, Marian thought. "Just rea.s.surance."

Marian forced herself to hold back all the sharp things she wanted to say. What good would it do now? She'd waited too long to choose the right words for Amy. Now someone else had done it for her. Berating Diane about it after the fact would get her nowhere.

You knew it had to happen someday. Time technology is part of her world, you couldn't hide it from her forever.

Amy was sitting at the kitchen table working on a jigsaw puzzle. It was one of Marian's own, a hard one. For a moment the girl didn't seem to notice her standing there in the doorway .