Year's Best SF 17 полностью

“Yeah, sure. I mean, after all, you people do have … a lot of … neuroses.”

It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion—him realizing what he was about to say, and yet not quite able to stop himself.

“ ‘You people,’ ” I repeated, feeling dangerous. “Neuroses?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said.

“Didn’t you? Listen, I think you’d better leave.”

He didn’t argue, just gathered up all his stuff and walked out the door. I slammed it behind him, threw the lock, and went to check on my supply of oatmeal soap. A soothing bath might calm my skin down enough to let me think.

I was lolling in the tub, enjoying some blessed relief from the itching while I used a deep-breathing exercise to try and get my lungs back under control. I was just getting into the zone when I heard a knock on the front door. For Christ’s sake. He’d only been gone half an hour, so now what?

Pulling a robe on, I padded out to the foyer to confront Fox. “Yes?” I inquired.

He just stood there, staring at me while his faceplate steamed up.

“What?”

“Uh. …”

Whoops. I hadn’t bothered to towel off all of the oatmeal. The robe was stuck to me here and there. I pulled it tighter, which was the wrong thing to do. Made his eyes bug out.

I snapped my fingers in front of his faceplate. “Hey! Fox! What … Do … You … Want?”

“Ma’am, if I tell you that … I’m afraid you’re gonna shoot me.”

Which is as close to a compliment as I’ve had in the last seven years, up here on the mountain. Yeah, so I glanced at the crossbow. I’ll admit that, but just for a second. Then I sighed. “I promise. I will not shoot you. Okay?”

Bozo nodded, but needed another half-minute or so to get back to the point. “Um, sorry to bother you.”

“Which you did because … ?”

“Oh. I, uh, I got a prelim diagnosis. On the house.”

“And?”

He had to yank his gaze upward to meet my eyes, but he managed it. “It’s … not an allergy.”

“Okay. What is it, then?”

“Well, um, listen. I took a look at the specs on this house. You may remember that Bi’Ome had to alter the house’s immune system.”

I nodded. “Yeah, so it wouldn’t react so strongly to all the things that make me sick.”

“That’s right. They, ah, we had to selectively cripple the antigen-recognition system, so that it wouldn’t react to … well, all sorts of things. Especially the man-made stuff—plastics and paints, and perfumes, insecticides—”

“Of course,” I said, getting a little impatient, I do admit. I mean, the man was standing there in a silk and cotton moonsuit, just so that he wouldn’t set me off.

“Well, that meant reducing the immunities that you’d already acquired to certain natural … biological hazards.”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded. “Has my house been poisoned?”

“Technically, no!” Reynard answered.

“Then what the devil is wrong?”

“The house is infected.”

What? I stared at him. He mostly stared at the floor. Despite the faceplate, I could see how red he was. Like he was sick.

“Infected with … what?”

Reynard flicked a glance upward, then fled my gaze again. “At first, I thought it might be a herpes virus—”

“Herpes?!”

He jumped when I hit high C, but I just couldn’t help it. I screeched at the man. “Are you trying to tell me my house has a social disease? My house has never had sex!”

“I, uh, well, I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” answered Reynard, “but, um, that’s not exactly the virus I’m talking about.”

Huh? But … a thin shred of memory fled through my mind. What I’d thought was a dream. Erotic, sensual—surely that hadn’t been real?

Paralyzed by the sudden suspicion that my house might have more of a social life than I did, I glared at Reynard. I spoke softly, for fear of cutting my own throat with the razor’s edge of anger slicing at me from the inside out. “So what are you talking about?”

“Varicella zoster.”

Zoster? I’d heard that before. But I couldn’t quite make it click. “Vari-what?”

“It’s a childhood disease. Used to be. Hardly anyone gets it these days because most kids are immunized.”

“Most kids,” I repeated, arms akimbo. I found myself leaning forward. With reckless daring, I went right on leaning, ignoring the fact that my robe had flapped open. In fact, I took a giant step closer before I demanded, “What about houses?”

Reynard licked his lips. “We, uh, we didn’t think there would be any need. The odds against exposure, up here—”

Right. “Exposure—To—What?”

Then the Latin words clicked, somewhere deep down in my memory. Oh, no. I backed off again, staring at him. I threw wild glances at every wall. Every pale, red-speckled, minutely blistered wall.

“Dewdrop on a rose petal” … that’s how my mother’s medical books had described the rash. I rounded on Reynard. “My house has … chicken pox?”

He shrugged again. “There’s, um, a blood test we can run. To make sure.”

I shook my head, willing my hands to stay put on my hips, to remain fisted. I would not give in, not to the itchiness or to the need to slap the living shit out of this so-called tech aide. “Don’t bother. Just treat it.”