Free Vacuum Flowers by Michael Swanwick Page A

up in his cloak. Gently, Rebel unwrapped it. When she saw his body, she gasped. “They beat you!”
    â€œAin’t the first time.” Jonamon tried to laugh. “But they couldn’t put their programmer on me without they beat me unconscious first.” His arms moved feebly, like a baby’s. “So I escaped.”
    Rebel wanted to cry. “Oh, Jonamon. What good did that do you? You might have been killed!”
    Jonamon grinned, and for a second Rebel could see the young, avaricious man of the old hologram. “At least I’d’ve died in a state of grace.”
    Wyeth drew Rebel away. “Sunshine, we don’t have much time.”
    â€œI’m not leaving without Jonamon.”
    â€œHmm.” He cracked his knuckles thoughtfully, and his lips moved in silent argument with himself. “Okay, then,” he said finally. “You fake the one arm and I’ll take the other.”
    They moved slowly downcorridor, the old man between them. His mouth was open and his eyes half shut with pain. He didn’t try to talk. The tank towners, seeing Wyeth’s jackboot paint, gave them a wide berth. “Queen Roslyn has her court down this way,” Wyeth said. “She’s a predatory old hag, and she stocks a lot of wetware. If anybody has a hospital going, it’ll be her.”
    They followed a purple rope into a dark neighborhood with one brightly lit gateway. People hurried in and out of it. Rebel didn’t need to be told that this was their destination.
    At the gateway, an angular woman with bony shoulders and small, black nipples blocked their way. “Full up! Full up!” she cried. “No room here, go someplace else.” She didn’t even glance at Jonamon, who was now fully unconscious.
    Wordlessly, Wyeth stripped the salaries from one wrist and held them forward. The woman cocked an eye at them, then let her gaze travel to his other wrist. Wyeth frowned. “Don’t get greedy, Roslyn.”
    â€œWell,” Roslyn said. “I guess we could make an exception.” She made the salaries disappear, and led them inside.
    It was chaos in the court, with stretcher lines hung up every which way. The lines were crowded with wounded rude boys and rude girls, temporary jackboots, unpainted religious fanatics, and even one tightly bound raver. A miasma of blood droplets, trash, and bits of bandages hung in the air. But people with medical paint moved among the wounded, and their programming seemed efficient enough. Roslyn stopped one and said, “Give this guy top priority, okay? His friends are paying for it.” The tech gave a tight little nod and eased Jonamon away. Roslyn smiled. “You see? Ask anyone, Roslyn gives good value. But you got to go now. I got no room for bystanders.” She shooed them back.
    On the way out, Rebel suddenly spotted a familiar face. She seized Wyeth’s arm and pointed. “Look! Isn’t that …?” Maxwell was stretched out on a line, unconscious. The red police strip was smudged on his finely chiseled face.
    Roslyn saw the gesture and laughed. “Another friend of yours? You oughta maybe get some new ones who can stay out of trouble. But he’s okay. Might lose a tooth. But mostly he’s just got a histamine reaction from being bee-stung too often.” They were at the gateway now. “Young woman brought him in. Pretty little thing.” She cackled. “I think she’s sweet on him.”
    â€œOh?” Rebel said coolly. “Well, it takes all kinds, I guess.”
    They moved through near-empty corridors, away from the center of the tank, and away from the receding storm front. “Wyeth,” Rebel said after a long silence, “Jonamon’s problems are all the result of his calcium depletion, aren’t they?”
    â€œJonamon’s problems are all the result of his being a stubborn old man. He’ll survive this time, but it’s going