Descending Road - ON HIS OWN LEGS by Dana W. Paxson

ON HIS OWN LEGS

1563 4D

“The woman was nearly dead when she came to our door, ten years ago.” Deen passed a plate filled with small herbed rolls to Andrew.

Andrew, Deen and Marra were finishing a late-summer dinner at the women’s mountain house. Andrew‘s appetite had improved, along with his healing body; his tendons still hurt him, but he moved fairly well. Deen was recounting some of their work.

“What was wrong with her?” Andrew stuffed another roll in his mouth. He was nervous; he hadn’t heard anything from his family, and he wanted to go home.

“Took a bullet in her chest,” Marra said, holding up a finger. “It was sitting there a nail’s breadth from her heart. We found her in the snow outside our door.”

“It was rude,” Deen put in. “We’d been having problems with our… with our medicines, and poof! Just like that, we had to stop all the bleeding and get her back on her feet.”

“A bullet? She’d been fighting? Up here?” Andrew spoke through his mouthful.

Marra and Deen looked at each other as if they’d said too much.

Marra finally shrugged and said, “Not everybody out here likes the corpos and the militia.”

“I know,” Andrew said. “But there was no fighting going on up here in the last few years, not that I knew about. And my brothers would have told me.” It seemed strange that Martin or Raul or Norwell hadn’t figured out where he was; the Luce brothers always found each other. And Leil would have--

“Never mind.” Deen pressed on. “Anyway, Marra got the bullet out, closed her up, and within five days she was back on her feet. Even we were surprised — nobody bounces back that fast. Two days after that, she was gone. But I’d never forget her. When we took off her skinsuit, we saw she had only one--“

Andrew‘s apprehension had grown in him like a thunderhead. He burst out, “Look. I’ve got to get back to my farm. We’ve sent word several times, and no answer. I can’t wait any more, I’ve got to go home and see my wife, I don’t care about the danger. She’s got to know I’m all right. And now I’m really worried about her.”

“But you’re still having trouble walking,” Marra said.

“Look, I don’t care. Leil‘s got to be terribly afraid, or else—“

The women looked at each other. Deen said, “We’ll get the doctor.”

“I don’t want another exam—" Andrew began.

“No, no,” Deen said, “He’ll help get you out. I’ll go to town and leave word. He should be here in a day or two. Marra, get him his going-away present.” Marra left the table and returned, wheezing a little, with a long, heavy package, awkwardly wrapped. “Open it,” Deen said.

He peeled away tempweave to find a pair of beam guns, carefully polished. They resembled in skeletal form the ballistic rifles Andrew had used for small game and vermin on his farm: designed for long-distance accuracy, but with larger bore and much lighter weight.

He picked one up. This was an expensive piece, capable of autoconfiguring; its hard black stock and grip seemed to flow slightly under his hands and stiffen again. His fingers drifted across heat-dispersal vanes and the readout niche, over the textured grips, to the end of an arm’s-length gray-brown cerametal barrel. New, and nice. A small discolored patch on the butt of each weapon showed him where the silver ArCorp logo had been removed.

A long dull metal box filled with cartridges lay among the wrappings. Andrew hefted one of the guns cautiously, sighting at the ceiling through a barrel-length tube that illuminated and magnified, feeding him ranging data. It seemed to snuggle in his arms and follow his gaze. With an effort he put it down, trying to imagine the two old women stealing the guns from the wrecked van. “So you went weenie-stripping,” he said as he wrapped the guns again. He smiled broadly.

Deen chuckled. “That’s the way they say it in Sobi, in your part of the City. Where we came from back there, everybody called it ‘picking orchids’. The doctor would have called it an orchidectomy.” Marra laughed out loud.

“I’m going to miss you both,” Andrew said.

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	ON HIS OWN LEGS 1563 4D “The woman was nearly dead when she came to our door, ten years ago.” Deen passed a plate filled with small herbed rolls to Andrew. Andrew, Deen and Marra were finishing a late-summer dinner at the women’s mountain house. Andrew‘s appetite had improved, along with his healing body; his tendons still hurt him, but he moved fairly well. Deen was recounting some of their work. “What was wrong with her?” Andrew stuffed another roll in his mouth. He was nervous; he hadn’t heard anything from his family, and he wanted to go home. “Took a bullet in her chest,” Marra said, holding up a finger. “It was sitting there a nail’s breadth from her heart. We found her in the snow outside our door.” “It was rude,” Deen put in. “We’d been having problems with our… with our medicines, and poof! Just like that, we had to stop all the bleeding and get her back on her feet.” “A bullet? She’d been fighting? Up here?” Andrew spoke through his mouthful. Marra and Deen looked at each other as if they’d said too much. Marra finally shrugged and said, “Not everybody out here likes the corpos and the militia.” “I know,” Andrew said. “But there was no fighting going on up here in the last few years, not that I knew about. And my brothers would have told me.” It seemed strange that Martin or Raul or Norwell hadn’t figured out where he was; the Luce brothers always found each other. And Leil would have-- “Never mind.” Deen pressed on. “Anyway, Marra got the bullet out, closed her up, and within five days she was back on her feet. Even we were surprised — nobody bounces back that fast. Two days after that, she was gone. But I’d never forget her. When we took off her skinsuit, we saw she had only one--“ Andrew‘s apprehension had grown in him like a thunderhead. He burst out, “Look. I’ve got to get back to my farm. We’ve sent word several times, and no answer. I can’t wait any more, I’ve got to go home and see my wife, I don’t care about the danger. She’s got to know I’m all right. And now I’m really worried about her.” “But you’re still having trouble walking,” Marra said. “Look, I don’t care. Leil‘s got to be terribly afraid, or else—“ The women looked at each other. Deen said, “We’ll get the doctor.” “I don’t want another exam—" Andrew began. “No, no,” Deen said, “He’ll help get you out. I’ll go to town and leave word. He should be here in a day or two. Marra, get him his going-away present.” Marra left the table and returned, wheezing a little, with a long, heavy package, awkwardly wrapped. “Open it,” Deen said. He peeled away tempweave to find a pair of beam guns, carefully polished. They resembled in skeletal form the ballistic rifles Andrew had used for small game and vermin on his farm: designed for long-distance accuracy, but with larger bore and much lighter weight. He picked one up. This was an expensive piece, capable of autoconfiguring; its hard black stock and grip seemed to flow slightly under his hands and stiffen again. His fingers drifted across heat-dispersal vanes and the readout niche, over the textured grips, to the end of an arm’s-length gray-brown cerametal barrel. New, and nice. A small discolored patch on the butt of each weapon showed him where the silver ArCorp logo had been removed. A long dull metal box filled with cartridges lay among the wrappings. Andrew hefted one of the guns cautiously, sighting at the ceiling through a barrel-length tube that illuminated and magnified, feeding him ranging data. It seemed to snuggle in his arms and follow his gaze. With an effort he put it down, trying to imagine the two old women stealing the guns from the wrecked van. “So you went weenie-stripping,” he said as he wrapped the guns again. He smiled broadly. Deen chuckled. “That’s the way they say it in Sobi, in your part of the City. Where we came from back there, everybody called it ‘picking orchids’. The doctor would have called it an orchidectomy.” Marra laughed out loud. “I’m going to miss you both,” Andrew said.