molecules on old computer disks.
And the joyful ghosts. They came running even as Mae choked and clenched for one last time.
'bugsy@nouvelles: Babe! Honey, did you make it?'
'My baby! I've just had my baby!'
Bay Toh Van boomed, Bugsy did a virtual dance in the air, and Mae looked down, under crackling light.
'tunch@kn: Well, Mae, you won. You beat even me. We all won.'
'chungl@arm: Hiya, Mom, show us Kizuldah. We can see with your eyes, Mom!'
And Mae looked down at the thing that hung out of her mouth. Sunni held one hand, Kwan the other, and Kuei's arm was around her back.
The newborn was tiny, the size of a hand. How could it shrink so small? And it was burned black – black by acids. Its tiny fingers seemed melted together, and its tiny genitals were a blur of ruined flesh and its eyes had been seared shut.
And the child beamed – smiling, joyful, dazed.
The babe had been Formatted.
It was full of Beethoven, the history of Karzistan, the hysterical voices of joy live from Beijing, a new wall of Collab music rolling across the landscape from New York, and a sudden, huge warm hand of love reaching into it. Mae spoke to it through Air.
'My little future. You are blind, but you will not need to see, for we can all see for you, and sights and sounds will pass through to you from us. You have no hands, but you will not need hands, for your mind will control the machines, and they will be as hands. Your ears also burned away, but you will hear more in one hour than we heard in all of our lifetimes.
'I am called your mother.'
And then Mae looked up.
'You're alive,' said Kwan.
'We all are,' said Mae, and she caught up the dangling child and its father reached out for it, held it and cradled it. 'He burns!' Kuei chuckled. 'The child burns.' But he cradled him to his breast.
The light flicked and crackled for one last time; the fireworks of Kizuldah fell away to nothing. Kwan gave her a tug. Mae and Kwan, Sunni, Siao, Kuei and his new son, Old Mrs Tung, all of them, turned and walked together into the future.
