The next several days were fairly hectic for me. I was kept so busy I had little time to think or worry about the CC or entertain thoughts of suicide. The whole idea seemed completely alien.
Since I work for a print medium I tend not to think in terms of pictures. My stories are meant to be written, transmitted to a subscriber-rented scrambler-equipped newspad, where they will be screened and read by that part of the population that still reads. Walter employs others to shorten, simplify, and read aloud his reporters’ stories for the illit channel of the newspad. There are of course all-visual news services, and now there is direct interface, but so far at least, D.I. is not something most people do for relaxation and entertainment. Reading is still the preferred method of information input for a large minority of Lunarians. It is slower than D.I., but much quicker and in much greater depth than pure television news.
But The News Nipple is an electronic medium, and many of the stories we run come with film clips. Thus did the newspaper manage to find a government-subsidized, yearly more perilous niche for itself in the era of television. Pundits keep predicting the death of the newspad, and year by year it struggles on, maintained mostly by people who don’t want too much change in their lives.
I tend to forget about the holocam in my left eye. Its contents are dumped at the same time I enter my story into the Nipple’s editorial computer, and a picture editor usually fast forwards through it and picks a still shot or a few seconds of moving images to back up my words. I remember when it was first installed I worried that those editors would be seeing things that I’d prefer to be private; after all, the thing operates all the time, and has a six-hour memory. But the CC had assured me there was a discrimination program in the main computer that erased all the irrelevant pictures before a human ever saw them. (Now it occurred to me to wonder about that. It had never bothered me that the CC might see the full tapes, but I’d never thought of him as a snoop before.)
The holocam is a partly mechanical, partly biologic device about the size of a fingernail clipping that is implanted inside the eye, way over to one side, out of the way of your peripheral vision. A semi-silvered mirror is hung in the middle of the eye, somewhere near the focal point, and reflects part of the light entering the eye over to the holocam. When you first have one put in you notice a slight diminution of light sensitivity in that eye, but the brain is such that it quickly adjusts and in a few days you never notice it again. It causes my pupil to look red, and it glows faintly in the dark.
It had been operating when David Earth caught fire, naturally. I didn’t even think of it during subsequent events, not until David’s body had been removed and taken to wherever Earthists are disposed of. Then I realized I had what might be the biggest story of my career. And a scoop, as well.
Real death captured by a camera is always guaranteed to make the front feed of the newspad. The death of a celebrity would provide fodder for Walter’s second-string feature writers for months to come; anything to have an excuse to run once more that glorious, horrible image of David’s head wreathed in fire, and the even more horrifying results of being crushed beneath a stampeding brontosaur.
News footage is exclusive to the paper that filmed it for a period of twenty-four hours. After that, there is a similar period when it may be leased for minutes or hours, or sold outright. After forty-eight hours it all becomes public domain.
A major metropolitan newspaper is geared to exploit these two critical periods to the utmost. For the first day, when we could exploit my film exclusively, we made the death of Earth seem like the biggest story since the marriage of Silvio and Marina twenty-five years ago, or their divorce one year later, or the Invasion of the Planet Earth, take your pick. Those are commonly thought to be the three biggest news stories of all time, the only real difference in their magnitude being that two of them were well-covered, and one was not. This story was nowhere near that big, of course, but you’d never have known it to read our breathless prose and listen to our frantic commentators.
I was the center of much of this coverage. There was no question of sleeping. Since I’m not an on-screen personality—which means I’m an indifferent speaker, and the camera does not love me—I spent most of the time sitting across from our star anchor and answering his questions. Most of this was fed out live, and often took as much as fifteen minutes at the top of each hour. For the next fifteen minutes we showed the reports sent back by the cadres of camera people who descended on Callie’s ranch and shot everything from pictures of the killer dinosaur’s bloody foot, to the corpses of the three b-saurs killed in the stampede, to the still-vivid imprint of David’s body in the mud, to interviews with every ranch hand who’d ever worked for Callie, even though none of them had seen anything but the dead body.
I thought Walter was going to explode when he learned that Callie refused to be interviewed under any circumstances or for any amount of money. He sent me to the ranch to cajole her. I went, knowing it would do no good. He threatened to have her arrested; in his rage, he seemed to believe that refusing to cooperate with the media—and with him in particular—was illegal. For her part, Callie made several nasty calls demanding that we stop using her image, and someone had to read her the relevant parts of the law that said she couldn’t do anything about it. She rang me up and called me a Judas, among other things. I don’t know what she expected me to do with the biggest story of my life; sit on it, I guess. I called her a few things back, just as harsh. I think she was concerned about her possible liability in the incident, but the main reason was her loathing for the popular press—something I couldn’t entirely disagree with her on. I have wondered, from time to time, if that’s why I got into this business. Nasty thought, that.
Anyway, I decided it would be pointless to seek her advice on the parts of my story I hadn’t gotten around to telling her, for at least a year or so. Make that five years.
The next day was spent farming the story out to competing rags and vids, but on our terms. The price was high, but willingly paid. They knew that next time they were as likely to be on the selling end, and would gouge appropriately. As was standard practice, I was always included as part of the deal, so I could mention the Nipple as often and as blatantly as possible while on live feeds. So I talked myself into a sore throat sitting beside endless commentators, columnists, and similar sorts, while the by now dated footage ran yet another time.
The only person who got as much exposure as I did during those two days was Eartha Lowe. A movement as radical as the Earthists will spawn splinter groups like a sow whelps piglets. It’s a law of nature. Eartha was the leader of the largest one, also called the Earthists, purely to give headaches to poor newspapermen, I’m convinced. Some of us distinguished them as Earthist(David) and Earthist(Lowe), others tried the abomination of Eartha-ists. Most of us simply called them the Earthists and the Other Earthists, something guaranteed to provoke a wailing woodnote wild from Eartha, because there was no need to explain who the “Others” were.
David had died politically intestate. There was no heir apparent in his organization. Increasingly, people were not planning for their own deaths, because they simply didn’t expect to die. Perhaps that explains the mordant fascination with violent images in popular entertainment and the clamor for more details about real deaths when they occur. We haven’t achieved immortality yet. Maybe we never will. People are reassured to see death as something that happens to somebody else, and not often at that.
Eartha Lowe was standing on every soapbox that would support her not-inconsiderable weight, welcoming the strays back into the fold. In her version, it was David who had split away. Who cared that he had taken ninety percent of the flock with him? We were told that Eartha had always loved David (no surprise; they had both professed to love every living creature, though David had loved Eartha more on the level of, say, a nematode or a virus, not so much as the family dog) and Eartha had returned his affection in spades. I couldn’t follow all the doctrinal differences. The big one seemed to be Eartha’s contention that any proper Earthist should be in the female image, to be a mirror of Mother Earth. Or something like that.
All in all, it was the goldarndest, Barnum-and-Baileyest, rib-stickinest, rough-and-tumblest infernal foofaraw of a media circus anybody had seen since grandpaw chased the possum down the road and lost his store teeth, and I was heartily sorry to have been a part of it.
When the two-day purgatory was over, I collapsed into my bed for twelve hours. When I woke up, I gave some thought once more to getting out of the business. Was it a root cause of my self-destructive tendencies? One would have to think that hating what I did might contribute to feelings of worthlessness, and thus to thoughts of ending it all. I tabled the matter for the moment. I have to admit that though I may feel disdain for the things we do and the manner in which we do them, there is a heady thrill to the news business when things are really happening. Not that exciting things happen all that often, even in my line of work. Most news is of the not-much-happened-today variety, tricked up in various sexy lies. But when it does happen, it’s exhilarating. And there’s an even guiltier pleasure in being where things are happening, in being the first to know something. About the only other line of work where you can get as close to the center of things is politics, and even I draw the line at that. I have some standards left.
Talking to Callie had been a bust, advice-wise if not career-wise. But in searching for sources of dissatisfaction one thing had grown increasingly clear to me. I was wearing my body like a badly fitted pair of trousers, the kind that bind you in the crotch. A year as a female, ersatz though the experience had been, had shown me it was time for a Change. Past time, probably by several years.
Could that have been the fountain of my discontent? Could it have been a contributing factor? Doubtful, and possibly. Even if it had nothing to do with it, it wouldn’t hurt to go ahead and get it done, so I could be comfortable again. Hell, it was no big deal.
When the terribly, terribly fashionable decide the old genitals are getting to be rather a bore, don’t you know, they phone the chauffeur and have the old bones driven down to Change Alley.
Normally, when it came time for a Change, I would hie me to some small neighborhood operation. They are all board-certified, after all, one just as able as another to do the necessary nipping and tucking. A confluence of circumstances this time decided me to visit the street where the elite meet. One was that my pockets were bulging with the shekels Walter had showered on me in the form of bonuses for the Burning Earth story. The other was that I knew Darling Bobbie when he was just Robert Darling of Crazy Bob’s Budget Barbering and Tattoo Parlor, back when he did sex changes as a sideline to bring in more money. He’d had a little shop on the Leystrasse, a determinedly working-class commercial corridor with a third of the shopfronts boarded up and plastered with handbills, running through one of the less fashionable neighborhoods of King City. He’d been sandwiched between a bordello and a taco stand, and his sign had read “Finast Gender Alteration On The Leystrasse—E-Z Credit Terms.” None of which was news to anyone: his was the only Change shop in the area, and you couldn’t offer so expensive a service around there without being prepared to finance. Not that he did a lot of it. Laborers can’t afford frequent sex changes and, as a group, are not that inclined to question Mother Nature’s toss of the dice, much less flit back and forth from one sex to the other. He did much better with the tattooing, which was cheap and appealed to his clientele. He told me he had regulars who had their entire bodies done every few weeks.
That had been over twenty-five years ago, when I had my last previous sex change. In that time, Crazy Bob had come up in the world. He had invented some body frill or other—I can’t even recall what it was now, these things come and go so quickly they make mayflies seem elderly—that was “discovered” by slumming socialites. He was elevated overnight into the new guru of secondary sexual attributes. Fashion writers now attended his openings and wrote knowingly about the new season’s whimsy. Body styling would probably never be as big or influential as the rag trade, but a few practitioners to the hi-thrust set had carved themselves a niche in the world of fashion.
And Crazy Bob had spent the last ten years trying to make people forget about the little cock shop next door to the Jalapeño Heaven.
Change Alley is a ridiculous name for the place, but it does branch off of the five kilometer gulch of glitz known as Hadleyplatz. For fifty years the Platz, as everyone knew it, had been the inheritor of such places as Saville Row, Fifth Avenue, Kimberly Road, and Chimki Prospekt. It was the place to go if you were looking for solid gold toenail clippers, not so great for annual white sales. They didn’t offer credit on the Platz, E-Z or otherwise. If the door didn’t have your gencode in its memory banks along with an up-to-the-millisecond analysis of your pocketbook, it simply didn’t open for you. There were no painted signs to be seen, and almost no holosigns. Advertising on the Platz ran to small logos in the bottom corners of plate glass windows, or brilliantly-buffed gold plaques mounted at eye level.
The Alley branched away from the main promenade at a sharp angle and dead-ended about a hundred meters later in a cluster of exclusive restaurants. Along the way were a handful of small storefronts operated by the handful of very tasteful hucksters who could persuade their clientele to part with ten times the going rate for a body make-over so they could have “Body By So-and-so” engraved on the nail of their pinky finger.
There were holosigns in the Alley shops, showing each designer’s ideas of what the fashionable man or woman was being these days. The tastemongers back on the main drag liked to say the Alley was off the Platz, but not of the Platz. Still, it was all a far cry from the tattoo templates filling the windows of the Budget Barber.
I wondered if I ought to go in. I wondered if I could go in. Bob and I had been drinking buddies for a while, but we’d lost contact after his move. I pressed my hand to the identiplate, felt the tiny pressure as a probe scraped away a minuscule amount of dead skin. The machine seemed to hesitate; perhaps I’d be sent around to the tradesmen’s entrance. Then it swung open. There should have been a flourish of trumpets, I thought, but that would have been too demonstrative for the Alley.
“Hildy! Enchanting, enchanting old boy. So good to see you.” He had come out of some concealed back room and covered the distance to me in three long strides. He pumped my hand enthusiastically, looking me up and down and adopting a dubious air. “Good heavens, am I responsible for that? You came just in time, my friend. Not a moment too soon. But don’t worry, I can fix it, cousin Bobbie will take care of everything. Just put yourself in my hands.”
I suddenly wondered if I wanted to be in his hands. I thought he was laying it on a trifle thick, but it had been a while since I’d seen him, and I’m sure he had appearances to maintain. The gushing, the mincing, all were nods toward tradition, something practiced by many in his line of work, just as lawyers tried to develop a sober facade suitable for the weighty matters they dealt in. Back before Changing, the fashion world had been dominated by homosexual men. Sexuality being as complicated as it is, with hundreds of identified orientations—not to mention ULTRA-Tingle—it was impossible to know much about anyone else’s preferences without talking it over and spelling it out. Bob, or perhaps I should say Darling, was hetero-oriented, male born and male leaning, which meant that, left to his own choice, he would be male most of the time with occasional excursions into a female body, and no matter his current sex would prefer the company of the opposite.
But his profession almost demanded that he Change four or five times a year, just as the rag merchants had better wear their own designs. Today he was male, and didn’t look any different from when I had known him. At least he didn’t at first. When I looked more closely, I saw there were a thousand subtle alterations, none of them radical enough so his friends wouldn’t recognize him on the street.
“You don’t have to take the blame,” I told him, as he took my elbow and guided me toward something he called a “Counseling Suite.” “Maybe you don’t remember, but I brought in all the specs myself. You never had a chance to practice your craft.”
“I remember it quite well, dear boy, and perhaps it was the will of Allah. I was still learning my art—please heed the stress on the word, Hildy—and I probably would have made a botch of it. But I do recall being quite cross.”
“No, Darling, in those days you didn’t get cross, you got pissed-off.”
He made a weird sort of smirk, acknowledging the jibe but not letting the tinkerbell mask slip a millimeter. I glanced around the suite, and had to stifle a laugh. This was girl heaven. The walls were mirrors, creating a crowd of Hildys and Bobbies. Most everything else was pink, and had lace on it. The lace had lace on it. It was fabulously overdone, but I liked it. I was in the mood for this sort of thing. I sank gratefully into a pink and white lacy settee and felt the anxiety wash away from me. This had been a good idea after all.
A female assistant or whatever entered with a silver bucket of champagne on ice, set it up near me, poured some into a tall glass. It was a measure of my alienation from my current soma-type that I watched these operations with complete disinterest. A week before . . . well, before Scarpa Island, however that interval should be measured, I would have been attracted to the woman. Just at the moment I was effectively neuter. Robert didn’t interest me either. Actually, he probably wouldn’t interest me after the change, simply because he was not my “type,” a word simply dripping with meaning in the age of gender selection.
Like my host, I am hetero oriented. Which is not to say I have never engaged in sex with a partner of my current sex; hasn’t everybody? Can anyone remain truly heteroist when they have been both male and female? I suppose anything’s possible, but I’ve never encountered it. What I find is that sex for me is always better when there is a man and a woman involved. Twice in my life I have met people I wanted to become more deeply attached to when both of us were of the same sex. In both cases, one of us Changed.
I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t believe anyone can really explain reasons behind their sexual preferences, unless they’re based on prejudice: i.e., this or that practice is unnatural, against God’s law, perverted, disgusting, and so forth. There’s still some of that around, a bit of it in Bob’s old neighborhood, in fact, where he twice had windows smashed and once had truly repulsive Christian slogans painted over his sign. But sexual preference seems to be something that happens to you, not something you elect. The fact is, when I’m a boy I’m intensely interested in girls, and have little or no interest in other boys, and vice versa when I’m a girl. I have friends who are precisely the opposite, who are homo-oriented in both sexes. So be it. I know people who cover the whole spectrum between these two positions, from the dedicated males and females, homo and hetero, to the pan-sexuals who only require you to be warm and would be willing to overlook it if you weren’t, to the dysfunctionals who aren’t happy in either sex, to the true neuters, who identify with neither sex, have all external and internal attributes removed and are quite glad to be shut of the whole confusing, inconvenient, superfluous, messy business.
As to type, neither Robert or Darling was mine. When female, I’m not as much concerned with physical beauty in a partner as when I’m male, though it’s only a matter of degree, since when beauty can be purchased at will it becomes a rather common and quite unremarkable quality. Rob/Bob’s lanky Ichabod Cranish physique and long narrow physiognomy didn’t set my girlish heart to beating, but that wouldn’t put me off if the personality traits compensated. They didn’t. He was fine as a buddy, but as a lover he would be entirely too needy. He had insecurities science has not yet found a name for.
“Did we remember to bring our little specs with us, Hildy?” he asked. I had, and handed them to him. He leafed through the pages quickly, sniffed, but not in a judgmental way, just as if to say he couldn’t be bothered with the technicalities. He handed the genetic specifications to his aide, and clapped his hands. “Now, let’s flutter out of those charming togs, can’t create without a bare bodkin, chop, chop.” I stripped and he took the clothing, looking as though he wished for sterilized forceps. “Where did you find these things. Why, it’s been years . . . we’ll of course have them cleaned and folded.”
“I found them in my closet, and you can donate them to the poor.”
“Hildy, I don’t think there is anyone that poor.”
“Then throw them away.”
“Oh, thank you.” He handed the clothing to the woman, who left the room with them. “That was a truly humanitarian gesture, old friend, an act that shows a great deal of caring for the fashion environment.”
“If you’re grateful,” I said, “then you could stop spreading the pixie dust. We’re alone now. This is me, Darling.”
He looked around conspiratorially. All I saw were thousands upon thousands of Hildys and a like number of whoever he was. He sat in a chair facing me and relaxed a little.
“How about you call me Bobbie? It’s not quite so pretentious as Darling, and not so dreadful and reminiscent as Robert. And to tell you the truth, Hildy, I’m finding it harder every day to drop the pose. I’m beginning to wonder if it is a pose. I haven’t got pissed off in years, but I get cross practically all the time. And there’s a big difference, as you reminded me.”
“We all pose, Bobbie. Maybe the old pose wasn’t the proper one for you.”
“I’m still hetero, if you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t, but I’d be astonished if you weren’t. Polarity switches are pretty rare, according to what I’ve read.”
“They happen. There’s precious little I don’t see in this business. So how have you been? Still writing trash?”
Before I could answer he started off on the first of a series of tangents. He thanked me effusively for the good coverage he’d always had from the Nipple. He must have been aware that I didn’t work on the fashion page, but maybe he thought I’d put in a good word for him. Seeing as how he was about to design a new body for me, I saw no reason to disillusion him.
There were many more things discussed, many glasses of champagne put away, some aromatic and mildly intoxicating smokes inhaled. It all kept coming back to Topic A: when were “they” going to discover he was a fraud?
I was conversant with that feeling myself. It’s common to people who are good at something they have no particular love for. In fact, it’s common among all but the most self-assured—say, Callie, for instance. Robbie had a bad case of it, and I could hardly blame him. Not that I thought him an utter charlatan. I don’t have much of an eye for such things, but from what I gathered he actually was quite talented. But in the world he inhabited, talent often had very little to do with anything. Taste is fickle. In the world of design, you’re only as good as your last season. The back alleys and taprooms of Bedrock are strewn with the still-breathing corpses of people who used to be somebody. Some of them had shops right here in the Alley.
After a while I began to be a little alarmed. I knew Robbie, and I knew he would always be this way, frightened that the success he’d never really adjusted to because he’d never understood where it came from would be snatched away from him. That’s just the way he was. But from the amount of time he seemed willing to spend with me, he was either in deep trouble or I should feel extremely flattered. I’d counted on having ten or fifteen minutes with The Master while he penciled in the broad strokes, then turned me over to aides to do the actual design work. Didn’t he have more important clients waiting somewhere?
“Saw you on telly,” he said, after winding down from his increasingly tiresome lament. “With that dreadful . . . what’s her name? I forget. More on that incredibly boring David Earth story. I’m afraid I switched off. I don’t care if I never hear his name again.”
“I felt that way three hours into the first day. But you were fascinated for at least twenty-four hours, you couldn’t get enough news about it.”
“Sorry to disappoint you. It was boring.”
“I doubt it. Think back to when you first read about it. You were dying to hear more. It was boring later, after you’d seen the film three or four times.”
He frowned, then nodded. “You’re right. My eyes were glued to the newspad. How did you know?”
“It’s true of almost everybody. You in particular. If everyone’s talking about something, you can’t afford not to have an opinion, a snide comment, a worldly sigh . . . something. To not have heard of it would be unthinkable.”
“We’re in the same business, aren’t we?”
“We’re cousins, anyway. Maybe the difference is, in my business we can afford to run something into the ground. We use up news. By the time we’re through with it, there is nothing quite so boring as what fascinated you twenty-four hours ago. Then we move on to the next sensation.”
“Whereas I must always watch for that magic moment a few seconds before something becomes as passé as your taste in clothing.”
“Exactly.”
He sighed. “It’s wearing me down, Hildy.”
“I don’t envy you—except for the money.”
“Which I am investing most sensibly. No hi-thrust vacations to the Uranian moons for me. No summer homes on Mercury. Strictly blue chips. I’m not going to ever have to scrape for my air money. What I wonder is, will the hunger for lost acclaim emaciate my soul?” He raised an eyebrow and gave me a jaundiced look. “I assume those specs you gave Kiki outline a plan as stodgy as what you’re currently walking around in?”
“Why would you assume that? Would I come here if I wanted something I could get in any local barber shop? I want Body By Bobbie.”
“But I thought . . . ”
“That was female to male. The reverse is a whore of a different color.”
I decided to make a note to myself. Send flowers to the fashion editor of the Nipple. There was no other way to account for the royal treatment Bobbie lavished on me during the next four hours. Oh, sure, my money was as good as anyone else’s, and I didn’t want to think too hard about the bill for all this. But neither friendship nor idleness could explain Bobbie’s behavior. I concluded he was looking for a good review.
Can you call something a quirk when you share it with a large minority of your fellow citizens? I’m not sure, but perhaps it is. I’ve never understood the roots of this peculiarity, any more than I understand why I don’t care to go to bed with men when I am a man. But the fact is, as a man I am fairly indifferent to how I look and dress. Clean and neat, sure, and ugly is something I can certainly do without. But fashions don’t concern me. My wardrobe consists of the sort of thing Bobbie threw away when I arrived, or worse. I usually put on shorts, a comfortable shirt, soft shoes, a purse: standard men’s wear, suitable for all but formal occasions. I don’t pay much attention to colors or cut. I ignore make-up completely and use only the blandest of scents. When I’m feeling festive I might put on a colorful skirt, more of a sarong, really, and never fret about the hemline. But most of what I wear wouldn’t have raised eyebrows if I had gone back in time and walked the streets in the years before sex changing.
The fact is, I feel that while a woman can wear just about anything, there are whole categories of clothing a man looks silly in.
Case in point: the body-length, form-fitting gown, the kind that reaches down to the ankles, maybe with a slit up one side to the knee. Put it on a man’s body and the penis will produce a flaw in the smooth line unless it is strapped down tight—and the whole point of wearing something like that, to my mind, is to feel slinky, not bound up. That particular garment was designed to show the lines of a woman’s body, curves instead of angles. Another is the plunging neckline; both the sort that conceal and the kind that push up and display the breasts. A man can certainly get away with a deep neckline, but the purpose and the engineering of it are different.
Before you start your letter to the editor, I know these are not laws of nature. There’s no reason a man can’t have feminine legs, for instance, or breasts, if he wants them. Then he’d look good in those clothes, to my eye, but precisely because he had feminine attributes. I am much more of a traditionalist when it comes to somatotypes. If I have the breasts and the hips and the legs, I want the whole package. I’m not a mixer. I feel there are boy things and girl things. The basic differences in body types are easy to define. The differences in clothing types is tougher, and the line moves, but can be summarized by saying that women’s clothing is more apt to emphasize and define secondary sexual characteristics, and to be more colorful and varied.
And I can name a thousand exceptions through history, from the court of Louis the Sun King to the chador of Islamic women. I realize that western women didn’t wear pants until the twentieth century, and men didn’t wear skirts—Scotland and the South Seas notwithstanding—until the twenty-first. I know about peacocks and parrots and mandrill baboons. When you start talking about sex and the way you think it should be, you’re bound to get into trouble. There are very few statements you can make about sex that won’t have an exception somewhere.
I guess this is something of a hobby-horse with me. It’s in reaction to the militant unisexers who believe all gender-identified clothing should be eliminated, that we should all pick our clothing randomly, and sneer at you publicly when you dress too feminine or masculine. Or even worse, the uniformists, those people who want us all to wear formal job-identified clothing at all times, or a standardized outfit—wait a minute, I’ve got one right here, just let me show you, you’ll love it!—usually some drearily practical People’s Jumpsuit with a high neck and lots of pockets, comes in three bilious colors. Those people would have us all running about looking like some dreadful twentieth century “futuristic” film, when they thought the people of 1960 or 2000 would all want to dress alike, with meter-wide shelves on their shoulders or plastic bubbles over their heads or togas or the ubiquitous jumpsuit with no visible zipper, and leave you wondering how did those people make water. These folks would be amusing if they didn’t introduce legislation every year aimed at making everyone behave like them.
Or lingerie! What about lingerie? Transvestitism didn’t die with sex changing—very little did, because human sexuality is concerned with what gives us a thrill, not what makes sense—and some people with male bodies still prefer to dress up in garter belts and padded bras and short transparent nightgowns. If they enjoy it that’s fine with me. But I’ve always felt it looks awful, simply because it clashes. You may say the only thing it clashes with are my cultural preconceptions, and I’d agree with you. So what else is fashion? Bobbie could tell you that tinkering with a cultural icon is something you do at your own peril, with a few stiff drinks, a brave smile, and a premonition of disaster, because nine times out of ten it just doesn’t sell.
Which simply means that as many as half my fellow citizens feel as I do about gender dressing, and if that many feel that way, how bad can it be?
I rest my case.
So I spent a pleasant time fulfilling a gender based stereotype: shopping. I enjoyed the hell out of it.
When you get the full treatment from Bobbie, no bodily detail is too small. The big, gaudy, obvious things were quickly disposed of. Breasts? What are people wearing this year, Bobbie? As small as that? Well, let’s not get ridiculous, dear, I’d like to feel a little bounce, all right? Legs? Sort of . . . you know . . . long. Long enough to reach the ground. No knobs on the knees, if you please. Trim ankles. Arms? Well, what can you say about arms? Work your magic, Bobbie. I like a size five shoe and all my best dresses are nines—and thirty years out of date, enough time for some of them to be stylish again—so work around that. Besides, I feel comfortable in a body that size, and height reductions cost out at nearly two thousand per centimeter.
Some people spend most of their time on the face. Not me. I’ve always preferred to make any facial changes gradually, one feature at a time, so people can recognize me. I settled on my basic face fifty years ago, and see no need to change it for current fashion, beyond a little frill here and there. I told Bobbie not to change the underlying bone structure at all; I feel it’s suitable for a male or a female countenance. He suggested a slight fullness to the lips and showed me a new nose I liked, and I went flat-out trendy with the ears, letting him give me his latest design. But when I showed up for work after the Change, everyone would know it was Hildy.
I thought I was through . . . but what about the toes? Bare feet are quite practical in Luna, and had come back into vogue, so people will be looking at your toes. The current rage was to eliminate them entirely as an evolutionary atavism.
Bobbie spent some time trying to sell me on Sockfeet, which look just like they sound. I guess I’m just a toe person. Or if you listen to Bobbie, a Cro-Magnon. I spent half an hour on the toes, and almost as much time on the fingers and hands. There’s nothing I hate like sweaty hands.
I put considerable thought into the contemplation of navels. With the nipples and the vulva, the navel is the only punctuation between the chin and the toenails, the only places for the eye to pause in the smooth sweep of the female form I was designing. I did not neglect it. Speaking of the vulva, I once again proved myself a hopeless reactionary. Lately, otherwise conservative women had been indulging the most outrageous flights of fancy when it came to labial architecture, to the point that it was sometimes difficult to be sure what sex you were looking at without a second glance. I preferred more modest, compact arrangements. With me, it is mostly not for public display anyway. I usually wear something below the waist, some sort of skirt or pants, and I didn’t want to frighten off a lover when I dropped them.
“You won’t frighten anyone with that, Hildy,” Bobbie said, looking sourly at the simulation of the genitals I’d just spent so much time elaborating. “I’d say your main problem here is boredom.”
“It was good enough for Eve.”
“I must have missed her last showing. Can’t imagine why. I’m sure it will prove quite useful in the circles you move in, but are you sure I couldn’t interest you in—”
“I’m the one that has to use it, and that’s what I want. Have a heart, Bobbie. I’m an old fashioned girl. And didn’t I give you a free hand with the skin tones, and the nipples, and the ears and the shoulder blades and the collarbones and the ass and those two fetching little dimples in the small of the back?” I turned at the waist and looked at the full-body simulation that had replaced one of the mirrors, and chewed on a knuckle. “Maybe we should take another look at those dimples . . . ”
He talked me out of changing that, and into a slight alteration of the backs of the hands, and he bitched at me some more and threw up his hands in disgust at every opportunity, but I could tell he was basically pleased. And so was I. I moved around, watching the female I was about to become duplicate all my movements, and it was good. It was the seventh hour: time to rest.
And then a strange thing happened to me. I was taken to the prep room, where the technicians built their mystical elixirs, and I began to suffer a panic attack. I watched the thousand and one brews dripping from the synthesizers into the mixing retorts, cloudy with potential, and my heart started beating wildly and I began to hyperventilate. I also got angry.
I knew what I was afraid of, and anyone would be angry.
Unless you’ve chosen the most radical of body make-overs, very little of modern sex changing involves actual surgery. In my case, about all the cutting that was planned was the removal and storage of the male genitalia, and their replacement with a vagina, cervix, uterus, and set of fallopian tubes and ovaries which were even then being messengered over from the organ bank, where they’d reposed since my last Change. There would be a certain amount of body sculpting, but not much. Most of the myriad alterations I was about to undergo would be done by the potions being mixed in the prep room. Those brews contained two elements: a saline solution, and uncounted trillions of nanobots.
Some of these cunning little machines were standard, made from templates used in all male-to-female sex changes. Some were customized, cobbled together from parts stolen from microbes and viruses or from manufactured components, assembled by Bobbie and assigned a specific and often minute task, copyrighted, and given snippets of my own genetic code much like a bloodhound is given an old shoe to establish the scent. All of them were too small to be seen by the human eye. Some were barely visible in a good microscope. Many were smaller than that.
They were assembled by other nanobots at chemical-reaction speeds, and produced in groups seldom smaller than one million units. Injected into the bloodstream, they responded to the conditions they found there, gravitated to their assigned working sites using the same processes whereby hormones and enzymes found their way through the corpus, identified the right spots by using jig-saw-like pieces of these same bodily regulators as both maps and grapplers, attached themselves, and began to boogie. The smaller ones penetrated the individual cell walls and entered the DNA itself, reading the amino acids like rosary beads, making carefully planned cuts and splices. The larger ones, the kind with actual motors and manipulators and transistors, screws, scrapers, memories, arms—what used to be called microbots when they were first made with the same technologies that produced primitive integrated circuit chips—these congregated at specified sites and performed grosser tasks. The microbots would each be handed a piece of my genetic code and another piece synthesized by Bobbie, which functioned like eccentric cams in making the tiny machines do their particular job. Some would go to my nose, for instance, and start carving away here, building up there, using my own body and supplementary nutrients carried in by cargo microbots. Waste material was picked up in the same way and ferried out of the body. In this way one could gain or lose weight very quickly. I myself planned to emerge from the Change fifteen kilos lighter.
The nanobots labored diligently to make the terrain fit the map. When it did, when my nose was the shape Bobbie had intended, they detached themselves and were flushed away, de-programmed, and bottled to await the next customer.
Nothing new or frightening about that. It was the same principle used in the over-the-counter pills you can buy to change the color of your eyes or the kinkiness of your hair while you sleep. The only difference was the nanobots in the pills were too cheap to salvage; when they’d done their work they simply turned themselves off in your kidneys and you pissed them away. Most of the technology was at least one hundred years old, some more ancient than that. The hazards were almost nil, very well-known, and completely in control.
Except I now found I had developed a fear of nanobots. Considering what the CC had told me about them, I didn’t think it was entirely unfounded.
The other thing that frightened me was even worse. I was afraid to go to sleep.
Not so much sleep in the normal sense. I had slept well enough the night before; better than normal, in fact, considering my exhaustion from the two-day celebrity binge. But the epic infestation of nanobots I was about to experience wreaks havoc on the body and the mind. It’s not something you want to be awake for.
Bobbie noticed something was wrong as he took me to the suspension tank. It was all I could do to hold still while the techs shoved the various hoses and cables into the freshly-incised stigmata in my arms and legs and belly. When I was invited to step into the coffin-sized vat of cool blue fluid, I almost lost my composure. I stood there gripping the sides of the vat, knuckles white, with one foot in and the other not wanting to leave the floor.
“Something the matter?” Bobbie asked, quietly. I saw some of his helpers were trying not to stare at me.
“Nothing you could do anything about.”
“You want to tell me about it? Let me get these people out of the room.”
Did I want to tell him? In a way, I was aching to. I’d never gotten to tell Callie, and the urge to spill it to somebody was almost overwhelming.
But this was not the place and certainly not the time, and Bobbie was most definitely not the person. He would simply find a way to incorporate it into the continuing Gothic novel that was The Life Of Robert Darling, with himself the imperiled heroine. I simply had to get through this myself and talk it over with someone later.
And suddenly I knew who that someone would be. So get it over with, Hildy, grit your teeth and step into the tub and let the soothing fluids lull you into a sleep no more dangerous than you’ve had every night for thirty-six and a half thousand nights.
The water closed over my face. I gulped it into my lungs—always a bit unpleasant until all the air is gone—and looked up into the wavering face of my re-creator, unsure when and where I would wake up again.