"Nancy Kress - The Flowers of Aulit Prison" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kress Nancy)

The Flowers
of Aulit Prison (v1.1)

Nancy Kress, 1996




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. But of course it hasn't; none of those sections would write to me until I am real again.
The sealed letter is from Reality and Atonement. It's a summons; they have a job for me.
And about time. I have been home nearly six weeks since the last job, shaping my
flowerbeds and polishing dishes and trying to paint a skyscape of last month's synchrony,
when all six moons were visible at once. I paint badly. It is time for another job.
I pack my shoulder sack, kiss the glass of my sister's coffin, and lock the house. Then I