Walkaway

by Cory Doctorow

IT WASN’T LIKE waking from a dream, but Iceweasel was sure she had dreamed. There was Billiam, flirting outrageously with Noozi, which couldn’t be right, because poor Billiam was long dead. Noozi was in orbit, had been in orbit for fifteen years, swore she felt none of the negative physiological effects, they’d been mitigated by deadheading and pharma they printed on the station’s bioreactor. There’d been doctors, some present, more in the crowd, offering opinions on her scans, on the cancer eating her liver, threatening to spread to her blood. And her father! They’d spoken, with Cordelia. It was like old times. Nadie had been there, too, and, shit, they’d made out, in front of Gretyl. Just the memory of it made her blush. 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...