The Long War

He lost track of time, alone for once, not moving. If he was spotted by anybody within the quiet Home, he wasn’t disturbed.

He was surprised to notice the shadows starting to lengthen, the afternoon drawing on. He left the little graveyard, to start the long walk back to Jansson’s.

And he saw a figure standing across the road. A woman in a nun’s habit, just standing, apparently watching him. He crossed the road. He couldn’t see her face; she looked youngish. “Can I help you, Sister?”

“Well, I’ve been away…” Her voice was a soft brogue. “I only learned of Agnes’s death recently… Would you be Joshua Valienté, by any chance? Your face is familiar from the news. Oh dear me, where are my manners? I am Sister Conception. Agnes and me, we went back a long way. In fact we took our vows together. I knew she would become a force in the world, always knew it, even though she could be a mouthy madam…”

Joshua stayed silent.

“Sister Conception” took a long look at Joshua’s face. “It isn’t working, is it?”

“Well, if you want me to think that you aren’t who you really are, no. I’d know her in the pitch dark. I can remember her walking through the dormitory every night, before standing at the door and turning the light out. The click of that old Bakelite switch, held together with glue because there was never any money for a rewiring. The way she made us all feel safe… Besides, she never was a good liar. Or

any good at an Irish accent.”

“Joshua—”

“I think I can work it out. Lobsang?”

“Lobsang.”

“A stunt like this is just like him. And it was me who brought him in to see Agnes when she was dying. All my fault, probably. And now—well, here you are.”

“Joshua—”

“Hello, Agnes.” He threw his arms around her, until she burst out laughing and pushed him away.

26

For Agnes, IT had begun with a wakening. She had felt a gentle warmth, and a certain sense of pink.

She thought this over for an indeterminate time. The last thing she remembered was her own bed, in the Home, the murmuring of a priest. She said, more cautiously than hopefully, “And I am in heaven?”

“No. Heaven can wait,” said a male voice calmly. “We have more urgent matters to consider.”

Sister Agnes whispered (although she wasn’t sure how she whispered), “And will there be a band of angels?”

“Not exactly,” said the firmament. “But top marks for getting in a reference to the works of the late Jim Steinman in your first minute of revived consciousness. Now, alas, you must sleep again.” And darkness returned to cover the firmament, and as it faded the firmament said, “Amazing…”

What was most amazing was that all this was spoken in Tibetan. And that she understood.

More time passed.

“Agnes? I have to wake you again for a little while, just for calibration…”

That was when they showed Agnes her new body: pink, naked, raw, and very female.

“Who ordered those?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Look—even before my bosom headed south for the winter, I assure you it wasn’t that size. Can you please tone it down a little?”

“Don’t worry. All things are mutable. If you will bear with us, we will eventually be able to present you with a suite of bodies for all occasions. All prosthetic, of course. You’ll certainly pass as human; things have got a lot more sophisticated since I began my own experiments. Although quite a lot of you, technically speaking, will not be human. Incidentally you are being attended by a number of surgeons and other medical personnel in the pay of a little-known subsidiary of the Black Corporation. They have no idea of your identity. Fun, isn’t it?”

“Fun?” Suddenly Agnes knew exactly who was doing this to her. “Lobsang! You bastard!”

The dark rose up again. But her anger stayed: the anger she had always looked on as an ally, anger that filled her up. She clung to that heat now.

Eventually the pinkness returned.

And the voice of Lobsang spoke again, gently. “My apologies once more, but this is a very delicate procedure—what you might call the endgame. I have been working on your revival for three years, and now it’s nearly done. Sister Agnes, dear Agnes, you have nothing to fear. Indeed I expect to meet you in person after breakfast tomorrow. While you wait, would you care for some music?”

“Not more bloody John Lennon.”

“No, no. Knowing your taste—what is your position on the works of Bonnie Tyler?”

Sister Agnes woke up yet again, bewildered. Bewildered, and smelling coffee and bacon and eggs.

The scent emanated from a tray close by the bed on which she lay, evidently placed there by a young lady—bespectacled, friendly, Asiatic, perhaps Japanese. “There is no hurry, madam. Take your time. My name is Hiroe. Please ask for anything you desire.”

In fact coming back to life seemed to get easier as it went along. With Hiroe’s help she made her way to the bathroom of what appeared to be a bland hotel suite, took a shower, stared at her perfect teeth in the mirror, and voided her bowels of nothing very much.