Galaxy's Edge Magazine: Issue 6, January 2014 by Resnick Mike et al

Author:Resnick, Mike, et al. [Resnick, Mike, et al.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Darker Matter, strange horizons, Speculative Fiction, Lightspeed, Asimovs, Locus, clarkesworld, Analog
Publisher: Phoenix Pick
Published: 2014-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Original (First) Publication

Copyright © 2013 by Brian Trent

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Nancy Kress is the winner of five Nebula Awards and two Hugos, plus a Campbell Memorial and a Sturgeon. This story was the 1998 Nebula winner.

THE FLOWERS OF AULIT PRISON

by Nancy Kress

My sister lies sweetly on the bed across the room from mine. She lies on her back, fingers lightly curled, her legs stretched straight as elindel trees. Her pert little nose, much prettier than my own, pokes delicately into the air. Her skin glows like a fresh flower. But not with health. She is, of course, dead.

I slip out of my bed and stand swaying a moment, with morning dizziness. A Terran healer once told me my blood pressure was too low, which is the sort of nonsensical thing Terrans will sometimes say—like announcing the air is too moist. The air is what it is, and so am I.

What I am is a murderer.

I kneel in front of my sister’s glass coffin. My mouth has that awful morning taste, even though last night I drank nothing stronger than water. Almost I yawn, but at the last moment I turn it into a narrow-lipped ringing in my ears that somehow leaves my mouth tasting worse than ever. But at least I haven’t disrespected Ano. She was my only sibling and closest friend, until I replaced her with illusion.

“Two more years, Ano,” I say, “less forty-two days. Then you will be free. And so will I.”

Ano, of course, says nothing. There is no need. She knows as well as I the time until her burial, when she can be released from the chemicals and glass that bind her dead body and can rejoin our ancestors. Others I have known whose relatives were under atonement bondage said the bodies complained and recriminated, especially in dreams, making the house a misery. Ano is more considerate. Her corpse never troubles me at all. I do that to myself.

I finish the morning prayers, leap up, and stagger dizzily to the piss closet. I may not have drunk pel last night, but my bladder is nonetheless bursting.

***

At noon a messenger rides into my yard on a Terran bicycle. The bicycle is an attractive design, sloping, with interesting curves. Adapted for our market, undoubtedly. The messenger is less attractive, a surly boy probably in his first year of government service. When I smile at him, he looks away. He would rather be someplace else. Well, if he doesn’t perform his messenger duties with more courteous cheer, he will be.

“Letter for Uli Pek Bengarin.”

“I am Uli Pek Bengarin.”

Scowling, he hands me the letter and pedals away. I don’t take the scowl personally. The boy does not, of course, know what I am, any more than my neighbors do. That would defeat the whole point. I am supposed to pass as fully real, until I can earn the right to resume being so.

The letter is shaped into a utilitarian circle, very business-like, with a generic government seal. It could have come from the Tax Section, or Community Relief, or Processions and Rituals.

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