GREEN HEARTS 
Lee Montgomerie

Genetics is a field that has seen major discoveries in recent years, so it isn't surprising that science fiction writers have increasingly written about the possibilities arising from them. Here we visit the solar system of a future in which not only cloning but also morphological control of plants has become common. It's a very strange place, and this is the story of a strange love.

Lee Montgomerie was born and brought up in Zambia; she has lived in England for over a decade. "Green Hearts," which appeared in the adventurous British magazine Interzone, is her first professionally published story.

When I can no longer bear the cramped tunnels of the colony and my mother's accusing presence (like billions of mothers before her, she cannot understand, she says, how her own daughter has changed overnight into this awkward, defiant and irascible creature), I often volunteer to go topside to check the terraforming project.

Weltering in pubescent irritability, I stumble in my heavy suit through the invisible bloom of lichens, amoebae and bacteria that suffuses the blushing sands, occasionally taking a sample for analysis. I oil the yellow robots that roam the red dunes.

Sometimes I pass the mirror dome in which Bionics Interplanetary are working on their secret project. It winks at me. My reflective suit winks back.

I wonder how Beanshoot is getting on.

The colonists have long since lost interest in the events which momentarily disturbed our smug autonomy, but the strange arrival of BI's protege still haunts me like an enigmatic dream.

I was in the infirmary for psychiatric assessment at the time.

On one of my mother's infrequent visits, she was suddenly vibrant with anger. "Bionics Interplanetary have returned!"

A fleet of ships bearing the green heart logo had arrived unannounced, disgorging huge quantities of equipment.

"A dome is being constructed in the desert," she told me on her next visit. The team refused to discuss their mission. Their communications personnel had taken over our radio tower, incessantly sending scrambled messages to some ship which was imminently expected.

"Intelligent alien emissaries from another system?" I heard the hospital staff conjecturing. They had been told nothing. Although the terraforming project, the colony's raison d'etre, was an official BI enterprise, most of the colonists had come to Mars to get away from Bionics Interplanetary and the damage they had done. My mother never tired of telling me that she had kept me frozen as an embryo for years; had smuggled me to the colony as an undetected pregnancy because Earth had been no place to bring up a child.

Lying in the hospital, 1 heard the anticipated ship landing. It was an ancient rusty tub, I was told later, from which stepped a half-dozen ageing agoraphobic astronauts, forgotten survivors of some nationalistic showpiece expedition of the pre-Bionic age. They stood blinking and confused on the tarmac while the BI delegation heedlessly shouldered past them, manipulated a large metallic canister from the hold, loaded it into a waiting ambulance and rushed it, lights flashing and sirens screaming, through the tunnels to the hospital.

An anxious BI medical team had been bustling around my ward all day, tensely erecting resuscitation equipment, when the container arrived, accompanied by all the rest of the visitors in a state of extreme nervousness. The Chief Technician was panicking, her fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar clasps, foul-smelling liquid slopping on the floor. At last she prised the crate apart to reveal a man-size, peeling foetus floating in a pool of fluid filled with sloughed skin and moulted hair.

The hospital staff crowded round. "What is it?" they asked. They recognised the container as the type that would have been used for transporting large extraterrestrial lifeforms, had any ever been found, but they did not recognise the etiolated creature with the hideous gasmask head as a human being.

The respirator came off to reveal a grey, gluey, uncon-scious face under a bald, veined skull. He was not breathing. The BI team were struggling to insert him into the resuscitation apparatus and the frail creature was blue and writhing, rolling blank eyes and racking his birdcage ribcage. At last he groaned and gasped and flushed and stabilised, and the BI people relaxed, embraced each other in an ecstasy of self-congratulation, and rushed off to organise a briefing conference.

I called my new companion Beanshoot. A can of these pale, embryonic delicacies had once found its way into our supplies. Beanshoot was to lie, helpless and pampered as a newborn, in the bed opposite mine until the establishment under the dome could be completed.

My mother was suddenly a constant visitor. "Imagine," she said, whispering excitedly as if that thing foggily groping and gurgling in the bed across the ward could understand human speech, "that boy is Nole Whard's legal heir! He is probably the richest person in the known universe!" And she looked at Beanshoot with a considerably more fascinated species of disgust than she had before the briefing conference- when she had averted her eyes in contempt from the huge, lolling head mindlessly dribbling synthetic milk all over the BI Chief Technician's biotechnical smock.

"I heard that his survival has been touch and go," she confided. One could not really blame the astronauts. They had left Earth in the pre-Bionic age, had been shocked to find on their return journey a bacterial jungle on Ganymede where at the time of their outward journey not the simplest amino acid had condensed on the icy rocks. More shocked still to discover in the midst of this multicoloured riot, a crashed lifeboat inscribed SS Titanic.

Carefully penetrating the airlock, they had searched the tiny capsule, filled with wild hydroponics, for hours before they noticed the naked adolescent, immobile, not bothering to watch them from among the overgrown tomatoes and grapes.

They had never heard of the Titanic. Even after their computer had translated the documents, the name Nole Whard had meant nothing to them. Some incomprehensible human man had lived alone on this airless moon, had given birth to a son and then had carefully ventured out into the vacuum by converting himself, cell by cell, into an anaerobic nerve net. Their landing and take-off jets had inadvertently destroyed the delicate intelligent web that guarded the mysterious boy.

They had carried Beanshoot unresisting to their craft but he would not eat, neglected to look at them and seemed unbearably distressed by his non-organic surroundings. Sharing their confined ship with an unresponsive, incontinent, cringing youth was soon unbearable for the astronauts too. They had decided to suspend him until they could get help.

Now, revived by what is called a miracle, he lies opposite me until the complex is completed and the BI team gently pack him in a transparent pressurised coffin and carry him away from the colony, never to return. The astronauts go back to an Earth changed beyond recognition. The hospital finds nothing seriously wrong with me.

"Impossible," my mother insists-"you must be insane." I have defiled my human purity with the Bionic Interface. She found the used scalpel in the recycling bin and insisted on inspecting me naked. Even so, she almost missed the tightly-curled pink flower bud on my left breast that almost perfectly matched my right nipple.

How many times she has told me about the youth of Earth and how they have abused their bodies-thrown them away, even-their worthless brains inhabiting the savage chimerae that terrorise the forests of Earth's once-peaceful cities? How dare I secretly violate my unique phenotype? The bud constantly accuses her through my shabby spacesuit liners. She cannot bear the sight of me.

I resume my solitary rambles on the dunes, communing with the lichens, passing and repassing the enigmatic dome. One day a pressure-suited figure emerges from the winking bubble and beckons me in.

I am weak. The inside of the dome is a sickening hologram. I have never before stood on anything more vertiginous than a rock. Now my brain refuses to believe that I am not perched on a dizzy platform high up among the swaying floral pinnacles of an Earthly city. The BI Chief Technician takes her helmet off and invites me to do the same. "Ah. You are Jeni, are you not? I am sure you must remember Nole Whard Junior. Would you like to meet him?"

We go inside the complex. Beanshoot is sitting staring out of the window at the perilous towers of the illusory city. He turns his head when I walk in, fixing me with a penetrating stare but saying nothing. I am silent in return, avoiding the scenery, searching for a resemblance to his famous father in those sad eyes burning in a stubbly skull furrowed with fresh scars. The BI team gather round to observe our interaction. I cannot bear it. I leave. I say nothing to mother.

For nights I dream that I am losing my grip among the foliage of a precipitous Earthly skyscraper. I wake with thundering heart and sweaty hands. A few days later I am back outside the mirror dome that reflects my mirror helmet, knocking.

BI are pleased to see me. Beanshoot suddenly has his famous father's famous head of red-gold hair (I had seen it growing in the outdoor garden which blends into the hologram, I suddenly realise). "It is Jeni!" he says. He smiles at me. Disconcerting to be greeted so eagerly by the long-lost consensual overlord of Earth. I am too shy to smile back. I leave early. For a long time, I ramble through the sands within the virtual limits of the hologram, imagining myself a winged bio-abuser floating among those perfumed floral turrets.

The next time we meet, we talk.

I tell Beanshoot about our minimal microbial ecology. He takes me into the garden and shows me his clumsy bionic experiments. He is converting a cactus into a kitten. It comes leaping over the sessile vegetation to greet us, awkward on four legs all different lengths. Its eyes, matched neither in colour nor in size, are both on the same side of its head. I pick it up. Its Green Heart flutters. I stroke its petal ears. "I think it needs a tail," I tell him. Together we work on it with the Bionic Interface and a muscular tendril from a predatory vine. The scalpel cuts cleanly through the flesh, spreading a layered red/green paste which seals the wound and glues the organisms together. We upholster the tail with the furry fungus which covers the rest of the cat. The kitten loves its tail. It chases it around the garden. We laugh. BI approve.

I become a frequent visitor to the dome.

Sometimes Beanshoot is not around to greet me. Asleep, or studying, the team say. "A good time for a chat," says the

Chief Technician, sitting me down and offering me some of the wild food to which I am growing accustomed. We talk about the colony, my mother, the microscopic culture we are establishing in the sand.

I explore the compartments of the complex. One day I open the door of an untidy cubicle, littered with toys and books. Beanshoot is curled up on the rumpled bed, kitten snoring on the pillow, his thumb in his mouth, a tangle of wires leading from his tousled hair to a rack of boxes under the bed. Poor puppet.

"There are things you need to understand," the Chief Technician says. "Beanshoot it not Nole Whard's child. He is his clone. He is Earth's most precious asset. His brain is an exact duplicate of the one that held the most brilliant intellect the world had ever willingly harboured, but he has spent his formative years bathed in the morphogenetic influence of brainless sessile vegetables. All BI are doing in this secret project on Mars is to recapitulate a childhood for him before he returns to take his place as the master of Earth. Nothing sinister. We are so glad to have found him a friend of his own age to share his experience.

"I have never seen you in anything but a suit or liner," she reminds me. "Would you like to try some Earthly clothes?" She fetches me a shapeless suit, woven from gut, muscle, nerve and chameleon.

As soon as I step into the flaccid pinkish-grey bag, it blushes with brilliant colour and contracts to fit my shape. It seems to enhance my movements somehow. I feel less awkward. When I leave for home, I put my clothes on top of it, not wishing to take it off. It immediately changes colour to perfectly match my skin, imperceptible joints at wrists, ankles and waist. I peer down the neck of my liners. Even if my mother discovers that I am wearing a biotechnical artefact, she will probably approve of the way I have eliminated my sexual characteristics. How like a child I am again.

I wear my Earthly outfit constantly. It never needs washing. It digests all the dirt and produces a thin thread of excrement which I add to the diet of my microorganisms. When I reach the dome, I shed my suit and liners and wear it alone. Its colour and pattern vary with the weather and my mood, and alter as I move. Its hints to my muscles enliven the athletic games that Beanshoot and I now play in the garden, brachiating among the more climbable trees, projecting our fantasies into the hologram, imagining ourselves to be regressed gorillas swinging through the dizzy skyscrapers of Earth.

Sometimes Beanshoot is uneasy and wary of me. "A sign of maturity," the Chief Technician says. Soon they will take Nole Whard Junior back to Earth, leaving the dome to my microforms and Mars to my mother and her friends.

I don't want them to leave. I am happy. The biological food has cleared my skin. The biotechnical suit makes me graceful and shapely. My mother is more at ease with me now, assuming that my handpicked genes are asserting themselves at last. Until the day comes when she decides (not suspecting anything, of course, she is to tell me) to follow me on one of my outings.

How surprised she is to find me consorting with the enemy! She gasps at the hologram in disbelief. She boggles at my vivid biotechnical garments, the garden filled with our wild experiments, my companion, startling in his likeness to his progenitor. "My Godl No wonder you have been looking so smug!" She pushes into the complex. Beanshoot and I are left outside. For hours we sit against the wall, mindlessly reassembling the vegetation at hand, while they talk inside.

Beanshoot is lucky to have spent his whole childhood without parents, I tell him. Of course he has a dozen of them now, manipulating him not just with words but with wires, drugs, surgery, hypnotism, morphogenetic generators. I stroke his hair and feel the honeycomb of raw sockets beneath. He twitches my hand away.

Hours later my mother emerges. She does not look at me. She snaps into her mirror suit and leads me back to the colony, maintaining radio silence.

"Oh yes," she says casually as we unsuit in our cabin. 'I have had a very interesting talk with the Bionics Interplanetary people. Very interesting." She smiles. She steps out of her suit and liners. She is wearing a biotechnical suit like mine; a superior version, jewelled and shimmering. "They are charming people. Nole Whard Junior is a lovely boy. Why didn't you tell me about him? You must go and see him again soon."

She sounds like the BI Chief Technician. I am enraged. She detests everything that Bionics Interplanetary has ever done and yet she ingratiates herself with the people who are trying to recreate the man who was responsible for it all. Well, I am certainly not going back there to enrich the experience of their puppet clone!

I return to my morose rambles in the dunes, my sullen stints in the laboratory, profiling the soil. I bury my biotechnical suit in the sand. My active little friends consume it in a morning. The complexity profile of the area increases alarmingly. I expect a startling new lifeform to emerge imminently, preferably a carnivorous phage that preys on biotechnical garments and their wearers.

I shun the dome.

I shun the colony.

I patrol the limbo between.

Eventually the day comes when I brood so long in the fug of my exhalations and angst that my oxygen supply is insufficient to take me back to the tunnels. Either I go to the dome, or I am found dead on the dunes in the morning. Either way, my mother will be secretly relieved. I choose the dome.

The sun has set when 1 get there. Beanshoot opens the airlock himself. Inside the dome there is no hologram, only the dim image of the landscape I have just left, bathed in the last red flush of sunset and the yellow headlamps of the robots that relentlessly comb the dunes.

Beanshoot must have seen me coming.

He is trembling.

I take off my helmet and breathe with relief the fresh air that rushes from the solar photosynthesising battery, still gushing oxygen when the last solar photons have slid behind the planet.

The garden is naked in the dark. The flowers are closed. The food has all been picked. The trees in which we swung in our careless ape existence have lost their foliage. Our kitten, long fallen under the morphic influence of its vegetable ancestors, has taken root again, a fat furry bundle snoring in the soil.

The complex is partially dismantled, the laboratory stripped, the project records packed and stacked outside.

Beanshoot's education is complete. The terrifying Nole Whard, architect of the Bionic Revolution, bogeyman of Mars, destroyer of my mother's dreams, stands before me- the famous steely charismatic eyes devouring me from the flushed, twitching and rapacious face.

I shrink inside my suit.

He frightens me. I cannot bear to lose him. Inside this threatening reincarnation of the most recent of the Earthly gods-the Lord of the Millennium-floats the frail foetus (luminous in my imagination) whose helplessness burned my heart as I lay angry in hospital.

We touch.

My padded suit feels nothing.

My eyes challenge my old companion to emerge from this menacing stranger.

My body betrays me.

Inside my suit and liners, excited by a hormonal hair-trigger, I feel the bud on my breast stir, tingle, part and swell; a florid blossom throbbing against my thudding heart.

Vibrated by some pheromonal harmonic, the whole garden stirs.

My mother still sighs with nostalgia over the Earth of her childhood. The Green Heart and the Bionic Interface already dominated agriculture, but the origins of their food had never interested the inhabitants of the steel and concrete city in which she dwelt.

The sudden urban fashion for bionic artefacts did not interest her either. She loathed the tenements of her birth where the neighbourhood youth had suddenly sprouted horns, fangs, talons and stings and terrorised the district; sometimes, after a midnight orgy of howls and rooftop scramblings, leaving a gnawed and part-dismembered corpse in her sterile backyard, constantly scoured of biological enemies.

She despised the suburban gardens where animate plants frolicked among the newly exotic flora; the bourgeois living-rooms where rumbustious toddlers harmlessly clambered over the robust, self-renovating, seed-grown furniture while their mothers fiddled with the bright feathers and flowers growing in their hair.

Perhaps, as she flicked through the financial papers, looking for a man who would marry her and carry her away to a world of timeless prosperity untouched by fashion, she noticed the features of young Nole Whard, charismatic ecology-conscious promoter of biotechnical artefacts, whose company, Bionics Inc., was soaring to astonishing success on a wave of ecological angst and millenial fervour. If so, she was appalled at the vulgarity of both his products and his sales pitch. The man was trying to make the whole world crawl with shame at the way the conventional industries had treated the planet, and then to promise an almost religious salvation if they turned from their sins and restored the biosphere to the green domain of their biological companions.

Not in barbary, but with all the comforts of a civilisation. Bionics International, as it was by then, had cornered, some say invented, applied morphogenesis. Nole Whard could grow anything. Machines were just crude imitations of living things, he would say; let us grow living things to do their work. Let us fashion from the soil all the comforts of the new age in which humanity would be reborn in a new garden of Eden; a second chance under skies scoured of industrial pollution; the raped and tormented Earth consoled at last by partnering a perfect new humanity in a bounteous, blissful and fruitful marriage.

The year 2000 was approaching. The skies were dark, acid, depleted of oxygen. The industrial culture had exhausted itself, the last few factories expelling their effluents into a landscape of rusting dereliction roamed by the despairing unemployed. My mother, having successfully climbed the ladder by virtue of her beauty and ambition, marrying an entrepreneur in a safe-looking conventional industry, sat comfortably in her sterile marble house surrounded by concrete walls, waiting for the tide to turn.

Catastrophe theory applies to morphogenetics. The moment came when the accumulated resonances from BI's inventions started to vibrate every organism on the planet. Nole Whard was quite suddenly swept to power as the prophet of the new Bionic age, his intense, shining face filling all the media windows, his vibrant voice promising to vanquish all four horsemen of the Apocalypse with the green sword of Bionics.

BI became the most successful company in the history of capitalism. Every other industry went under. My mother's husband jumped from the towering concrete emblem of his achievement just before the cities crumbled to fragments, their foundations shattered by the thrusting shoots of skyscrapers springing in entirety from a single seed. My mother's concrete courtyard buckled. Her sheltering walls collapsed. The seething, teeming, unstoppable life of the city irrupted into her once secure domain. Bitterly, she faced the future, seeing in this jubilant reflorescence only the revenge of the bugs, mould and excrement of her slum upbringing which she had been trying to expunge all her life.

The last surviving conventional industry, using metal concentrated by foliage, smelted by energy extracted from rotting compost, created the fleet of spaceships whereby the freshly-rechristened Bionics Interplanetary would spread the irresistible message to the rest of the system. Blue-green algae on Mars. Lichens on Venus.

All the accumulated wealth and pull of her husband's lost empire were just enough to secure my mother a place in the Martian colony. She was carrying her last, hoarded treasure: an embryo combining her beautiful, ambitious chromosomes with those of a certified genius of outstanding physique, all harmful genes enzymed out. Only slightly consoled by the news that Nole Whard, personally accompanying the promising Titan expedition in an invincible, infinitely-survivable ship, had met an uncalculated asteroid and been presumed pulverised, she turned her back on Earth.

She never intended to return.

But now she does.

All through the trip to Earth she prances through the ship in her sparkling biotechnical suit, rejoicing; her antipathy to all BI and I have wrought forgotten in her dizzying, preening pride. Her smiles irradiate the whole cabin. Beanshoot and I, instruments of her success, stare sullenly at each other, strangers again. We have not had a moment alone together since those last few seconds in the unfurling garden before the ever vigilant BI team rushed out and proposed a marriage between us. "How we hoped you would say yes," they said, after I had contemplated life without my refuge, and said it. "You have been part of the project all along, after all."

And so we are married on the flight deck of the ship at the moment that it enters Earth orbit for the final approach to the spaceport. As we exchange our vows, the drive is cut and we achieve weightlessness. We are swept off our feet, head over heels, revolving around each other in the great control bubble, our hair and clothes billowing. We cannot reach each other. I have to throw my bouquet into the wheeling crowd to project myself within grappling distance of my bridegroom who finally, fumblingly, puts a ring on my finger as the ship makes a ring around the planet. Dizzy and nauseous. We kiss. Our dry, doubting lips pressed apprehensively together. My mother and the BI team, anchored to cleats in the walls, ringingly cheer us, delight and relief shining in their faces.

We land.

I step out of the spaceship and straight into shock. Outdoors without protection, I imagine myself suffocating in the oxygen-rich atmosphere, i choke. Strange pollens and perfumes irritate my respiratory system. I weep. Gravity clamps my feet to the ground. I stumble. The swaying green buildings tower alarmingly above me.

I cling to Beanshoot for support. He is smiling expansively, entranced by the mobile plants which cluster around us, fronds upraised to savour our carbon dioxide, calyces begging our hands for pollination. My mother, ignoring everything external, embraces us both in an excess of irrepressible joy. The President of Bionics Interplanetary himself strides towards us, kicking aside the floral carpet which has prostrated itself at our feet.

A jostling crowd of news-crews surges an awed distance away, trying to encapsulate in this emotional tableau all the drama, poignancy and relief of the return to Earth of the miraculously-rescued, miraculously-restored avatar of the saviour of humanity on the day of his wedding to an ethereally-beautiful Martian child bride. A hushed human throng watches us from every level of the verdant towers.

We are driven in a closed carriage to the grandest hotel in the city, a rare haven of glass and metal modules grafted to the branches of a tranquillised oak. Accompanied by a fussing retinue of BI primpers, bustling around us with clothes, jewels, cosmetics and drugs. Just for a few moments we are left alone. Rigid on the plastic bed, afraid to spoil our perfect finish, we gaze into each other's dazed, glazed eyes.

Our nervous hands touch. Poor us. The only thing we have in common is that we have both been manipulated all our conscious lives. The last act of our tormentors has been to gently inject us with the pubescent hormones that BI have been suppressing since we became part of the project.

Desire suffuses me. I try to embrace my new husband. Our biotechnical dancing garments force us into a stylised clasp; wrists and elbows flexed, fingers spread and extended.

Beanshoot reddens. Our hot cheeks touch. Our lips meet. His pirouetting fingers brush my flower, erect petals pressing the restraining fabric. Pulling with all his strength at the neck of my dress, he bends his head to my blossom.

His lips encircle my corolla. His tongue probes my tingling petals. My pistil throbs. The fingers of his right hand gently massage my swollen sepals; his left hand whitens as he struggles with the strenuously-resisting neckline. My skirt binds my legs. I writhe on the bed. A sudden gush of hot saliva, swimming with inhaled pollen, floods my burning calyx.

They come for us. We sit up, blushing. The neck of my dress rises angrily to my throat.

We are driven in a low-flying winged chariot to an informal reception at the top of the BI tower. We sit apart, both wrapped in the revived fantasies of our interrupted adolescence. Crowds line the streets, staring at us in silent awe. The whole city is in bloom, our floral portraits on huge hoardings, a rain of scented petals spiralling down around us. As the sun goes down, photoluminescent bacteria light up.

The top of the BI tower is open to the sky. It is the original of our familiar hologram, disturbing again now that the dizzying drop is no longer an illusion. The President introduces us to various dignitaries. We eat and drink. We dance.

My mother takes the President by the hand and twirls him away in her twinkling galaxy of a dress, floating on wave after wave of vindicated ambition. Beanshoot and I cling together, hot faces touching, tender bodies brushing in our energetic garments which tirelessly circle the dance floor while we shuffle inside them aching with gravity, exhaustion, misery and desire.

The President bows and asks me for the pleasure and my mother pirouettes Beanshoot away in her tireless, rapturous ecstasy. I watch him over the President's shoulder. He is watching the plants, dreamily.

The President smiles affably. "No doubt you think Nole Whard Junior is the most important person in the world," he says. "You are right of course. The entire population of this planet is in resonance with his field. His father was their leader. Now they need to be led again."

Nole Whard Senior was a genius. But he was not really an astute businessperson. More a Messiah. Bionics has become a religion. Most of BI's products are now outside the economy, having reproduced or gone autonomous. They have to get back to steel and concrete. Nole Whard Junior and I must inspire the young; wean them away from their jungle existence, living free in the trees and on drugs, and get them back to robot jewellery and holographic clothes. He knows that we will do a good job, especially as our fields have been recannulated by our largely artificial environments.

He beams at his dreams. "Now I must return you to your husband." But where is he? I search for his golden corona among the gathering. "He was talking to the plants," my mother says; "he was fascinated by them."

We call to him. No answer.

We anxiously peer over the sickening drop. No crumpled body in the undergrowth. "He can climb like a monkey," I tell them.

"No sense in alarming anybody," says the President. He will take us back to the hotel where no doubt my husband will join us shortly.

We wait all night. I lie on the bed while next door my mother wails and paces the room. Our luminous floral portraits burn through the night.

The morning brings the President, stern and distant, informing us that Nole Whard Junior has still not been found. Fortunately the marriage has not been consummated, so there will be no problems about ending it.

My mother weeps and draws the blinds against the alien landscape, her triumph turned to bitterness.

Sad music emanates noncommittally from the holovision.

Above my aching heart, a hard seed is setting in the ovary of my breast flower.

My dancing dress has died and hangs limp and brown on the chairback.

A green tendril sneaks under the door sill, avoiding my mother's field of vision as she sobs in front of the dresser mirror. Hour by hour, it inches across the floor. I watch it silently. As dawn approaches, it reaches my bed and tugs at my hand. My mother is snoring in her chair. I put on my old spacesuit liners and go out after it.

I am not in the well-trimmed streets through which we flew on rainbow birdwings amid showers of petals and cascades of multicoloured blossoms opening in sequence. I am not worshipped by adoring throngs but stalked by skulking tigers and shambling apes, their mean human faces poking through the transplanted fur. Most of the buildings have gone wild and are sprouting shapeless spare rooms in which these beasts have made their untidy nests. A bird the size of a light aircraft takes off, its massive wings clattering, a shredded biotechnical garment dangling from its beak. Ugly ambulant plants sidle up and press their tumid calyces against me, dusting my liners with pollen.

Before I have gone half a block, my mother catches up. "You cannot go out here! Have you any idea how dangerous it is? These people are animals!" Outside Snakey's All-Night Bio Parlour, a pride of mangy lions are tearing at a headless torso, their tacky manes clotted with blood. Ignoring my mother's disgust, I follow the vine to its conclusion.

We find Beanshoot in a tangle of service roots at the base of the BI tower. Only his head is visible above the blanketing undergrowth. He is lying in a bower of flowers, protected by a cage of thorns, his face as contented as when he suckled a bottle of milk on the Chief Technician's knee.

"What does he mean by this?" my mother yells; "doesn't he know we have been out of our minds with worry?"

Beanshoot turns his head and looks at us comfortably (insolently, I imagine my mother thinking), then turns back to the blossoms which congregate around his head.

"Has he no thought for others? Going off with a plant on his wedding night't These vegetables don't give a damn about him. All he is to them is fertiliser-manure!"

She runs bellowing into the BI building to fetch the President, who arrives in an armoured suit and respirator, leading an armoured team, mincing in trepidation around the poisoned spurting spears that the plant has thrown up in self-defence. My mother is screaming even louder because now I am inside the deadly cage.

* * *

As soon as she had gone, he turned to me. The vine still in my hands contracted, the barricade of thorns parted, and I crawled inside the green shelter, pushing aside the clustering blossoms and pressing my head to his. Don't worry, I said. I stroked his cheek. It was cold and dewy. His skin looked greenish in the early light. His mouth moved without words. I have just kissed his clammy, pollen-crusted lips and am searching for his honeyed tongue when the President and his team move in, brandishing machetes, flamethrowers and her-bicidal aerosols.

Our thorns go into action.

All the plants in the square join in: flailing venomous tendrils, whiplashing vines, pods bursting like bombs. A stench of sap and roasting vegetables and unsmelt defensive pheno-mones that whip the unprotected into a screaming panic. ("Get out, Jeni, get out!" my mother shrieks, but by now I am bound to the ground by a web of tendrils.)

The BI team move on, imperturbable in armour, hacking, burning and spraying, while my mother howls in desperation and I twist in the grip that binds me eye-to-eye with Beanshoot's terrified face.

My hair and liners are on fire. Weedkiller sears my lungs. My blood splatters our faces. A rain of toxic sap slops from the blades of the slashing machetes.

At last the resistance dies down and I lie, gently unbound, in a blackened, blighted thicket; staring into Beanshoot's foggy eyes as the team scrabble to unearth him. They clear the fallen petals from around his head and neck and then stagger back in shock as the unmistakable red/green sandwich of the Bionic Interface comes into view, followed by the wheezing sponge of a failing Green Heart.

From there down, he is all roots.

I faint.

I wake in a rectangular chamber filled with diffuse golden light.

I have no heart. I am not breathing. Pain scrapes my eviscerated thorax. My raw skin still burns.

My mother hovers over my bed. "Dead!" she whimpers occasionally. The President paces the room, moving in and out of the field of vision of my unfocused, immobile eyes; his angry strides quaking the floor. "It has gone much too far!" he mutters, throwing up some shade to let a white rectangle into the golden haze of the room. "Look at them all out there! They have taken over the world! How did we let it happen?"

"Dead," my mother sniffs again, "poor boy!" So it is not I who am dead! Something out of my sight is circulating and ventilating my blood. A new heart and lungs developing among the blood clots in my chest cavity.

"Kidnapped, raped and killed by a fucking autonomous vegetable!" the President bursts out, agonised.

"Poor boy," my mother says. "Nobody should die in this day and age. Nole Whard Junior was so innocent." She has heard on the holovision that the plant entrapped him on the dancefloor-trussing him with its tendrils, gassing him with its perfume, hauling him down the side of the building with its vines. How terrible it was to see her son-in-law in its rapacious clutches!

She sobs. ''Just for a moment, while I watched the rescue, I imagined-of course my mind was mostly on my poor daughter-but I thought I saw-for a second I thought that the silly boy had deliberately interfaced himself with the plant. Then I heard on the holo that the dying vegetable, its roots having already reduced his body to gnawed bones, had cut his throat with one last spiteful slash of its thorns, rather than surrender him. Oh my God. Jeni cannot hear me, can she?"

"No," says the President. "Your daughter will be unconscious for a long time yet. The shock. She has been very badly burned. But you must not worry. We are growing her a new skin. New breasts as well. Your daughter will be lovelier than ever."

"The estate…" My continuing good looks assured, my mother is turning her mind to Nole Whard's billions.

"That will go to his son, of course."

"His son?"

My mother's spasm of alarm rocks my bed.

"Well, naturally, we had him cloned as soon as we could get a sample to the lab. Nole Whard III will be a lively blastocyst by now."

Tears fall onto my bandages. A quavering wail escapes my mother's throat. "My daughter]"

"No safer place for a clone than a female uterus," says the

President benignly. I feel my mother relax. Joy eases her heart. Her daughter, virgin mother to the prophet of the steel and concrete renaissance, new skin glowing with radiant maternity, new breasts swollen with celestial milk.

My mother's vanity squirms in my womb, sickening me. I try to protest. I have no breath. A drug paralyses me.

Smiling, on the arm of the President, my mother leaves the room.