THE ROSE AND THE SCALPEL
AD 2145
Gregory Benford
Joan of Arc wakened inside an amber dream to find herself sitting outdoors at a round table in an unsettling white chair. It’s seat, unlike those in her home village of Domremy, was not hand-hewn of wood. Its smooth slickness lewdly aped her contours. She reddened.
Strangers, mostly in groups of two and three, surrounded her. She could not tell woman from man except for those whose pantaloons and tunics outlined their intimate parts even more than anything she’d seen in Chinon at the court of the Great and True King. The strangers seemed oblivious of her, though she could hear them chattering in the background as distinctly as she sometimes heard her voices. She listened only long enough to conclude that what they had to say, having nothing to do with God or France, was clearly not worth hearing.
Outside, an iron river of self-moving carriages muttered by. Mists concealed distant ivory spires like melting churches. What was this place?
. . .