Capitalism in the 22nd Century of A.I.R.

Capitalism in the 22nd Century of A.I.R.

By Geoff Ryman (excerpt)

Remember the morning it snowed? Snowed in Belém do Para? I think we were l3. You can round and round inside our great apartment, all the French doors open. You blew out frosty breath, your eyes sparkling. “It’ beautiful!” you said.

“It’s cold!” I said.

You made me climb down all those 24 floors out into the Praça and you got me throwing handfuls of snow to watch it fall again. Snow was laced like popcorn on the branches of the giant mango trees. As if A Reina, the Queen, had possessed not a person but the whole square. Then I saw one of the suneaters, naked, dead, startling, and you pulled me away, your face such a mix of sadness, concern – and happiness, still glowing in your checks. “They’re beautiful alive,” you said to me. “But they do nothing.” Your face was also hard.

Your face was like that again on the morning we left – smiling, ceramic. It’s a hard world, this Brasil, this Earth. We know that in our bones. We know that from our father.

The sun came out at 6.15 as always, and our beautiful stained glass doors cast pastel rectangles of light on the mahogany floors. I walked out onto the L-shaped balcony that ran all around our high-rise rooms and stared down, at the row of old shops streaked black, at the opera-house replica of La Scala, at the art-nouveau synagogue blue and white like Wedgewood china. I was frantic and unmoving at the same time those cattle-prods of information kept my mind jumping.

Capitalist future of the mankind. Photo by Elena

“I’m ready,” you said. I’d packed nothing. “O, Crisfushka, here let me help you.” You asked what next; I tried to answer; you folded slowly, neatly. The jewels, the player, a piece of Amazon bark, and a necklace that the dead had made fro nuts and feathers. I snatched up a piece of Macumba lace (oh, those men dancing all in lace!) and bobbins to make more of it. And from the kitchen, a bottle of cupuaçu extract, to make ice cream. You laughed and clapped your hands. “Yes of course. We will even have cows there. We’re carrying them inside us.”

I looked mournfully at our book shelves. I wanted children on that new world to have seen books, so I grabbed hold of two slim volumes – a Clarice Lispector and Dom Cassmuro. Mr Misery – that’s me. You of course are Donatella. And at the last moment I slipped in that Brasileiro flag. Ordem et progresso.

“Perfect, darling! Now let’s run!” you said. You thought we were choosing.

And then another latch: receipts for all that surgery. A full accounting of all expenses and a cartoon kiss in thanks.

The moment you heard about the Voyage, you were eager to JUST DO IT. We joined the

Co-op, got the secret codes, and concentrated on the fun like we were living in a game.

Funny little secret surgeons slipped into our high-rise with boxes that breathed dry ice and what looked like mobile dentist chairs. They retrovirused our genes. We went purple from Rhodopsin. I had a tickle in my ovaries. Then more security bubbles confirmed that we were now Rhodopsin, radiation-hardened and low-oxygen breathing. Our mitochondria were full of DNA for Holsten cattle. Don’t get stung by any bees: the trigger for gene expression is an enzyme from bees.

“We’ll become half-woman half-cow,” you said, making even that sound fun.

We let them do that.