Descending Road - SMEARED WITH A SOFT LOOK by Dana W. Paxson

SMEARED WITH A SOFT LOOK

1563 4D

“Goodbye, Angie,” Andrew said. Another loss. Another damn loss. He stared into a smothering void, listened, and wriggled his way out to a black corridor stinking of cooked plastics and flesh. He quietly shucked his smashed carapiece, stripped out all the supplies he could carry in his coverall, and faced left.

Down this way he knew of two heat-exchange conduits that ran up and then across to Sobi. Could he risk light? Maybe he didn’t need to. He reached his way along, hearing faint explosions through the rock, their echoes booming in the stifling darkness. Angie‘s voice had been so sweet and alive. She— but she wasn’t a person. But she had given him so much. Was she like that for all of them? Or like a man? Andrew tripped over a body, his foot clicking against a hard shell. A carapiece? Or was it chitin? He stepped over it very slowly, trying to make no sound, and moved on.

He found the first conduit closet, its door still intact. When he opened it, a draft of slightly-cooler air touched his face. This would do. With his fingers he located the heat-exchange conduits with their layers of insulation.

The transit up to Sobi 636 took him twenty minutes of cramped climbing and crawling alongside the pipes. When he dropped out in a pitch-black closet, his arms and legs shook, and the fetid air seemed to resist his efforts to draw it in and push it out of his lungs.

A scream penetrated the closet door like a steel spike. It rang extremely high and loud, a meteor of sound traversing a blind sky, and cut off. Andrew fumbled for the door handle, and then froze.

A loud angry gabble of voices just outside the door, ending in, “That’s it! Pig! You’ll go like he just did. See?” A coarse tenor voice spat the words with precision. A brief gleam of green flashed dimly at Andrew‘s feet.

“No, please let us go. We didn’t make trouble.” A man’s terrified alto, whining.

“Shut up. You’re taking stuff out, aren’t you? Let’s see what you’ve got, nocock.” Tenor again.

“Brace his legs apart, like this,” a deeper smooth male tone broke in. “Then we can—“

“Yeah! Yeah!” A chorus of shouts, then the ripping of fabric. The sounds of a scuffle and more shouts faded slightly; Andrew guessed they had moved away from the door. He opened it a crack and peered out, seeing one tall man, held by four others in street armor and old helms, his coverall around his ankles; another man lying dead just by the closet door, a long sharp steel shaft through his belly and spine; and a third victim, slighter and thinner, in the grip of several more armored and helmed men. A powerful figure faced the tall man, its back to Andrew, its carapiece and helm looming malignantly against the glow of a chemtorch shining on the tall man’s face, a face smeared with the soft look of terror.

“Turn around, pig.” The armored apparition slapped the tall man across his cheek, and he obeyed.

The terrorized look ate into Andrew until he could feel his own face taking it on, taking it up like an old friend and wearing it once more. This look he could see on himself without a mirror, the unmanned look, the castrated look, the look that pleaded hopelessly in the face of intent and predatory evil, the look Andrew himself had worn so often in the vast shed where Arlen‘s corpos had tortured him night after night.

He wanted to stop these creatures, whoever or whatever they were, from doing more, but their victim’s emotion consumed him, the man’s fear vomited itself into his muscles and veins and weakened him, and he closed the door softly, to hear only a soft exhalation that rose into a faint cry, and then faded to silence. A shot. Then another, closer. The voices picked up again.

“Got everything? The stuff on that woman, too?” The tenor.

“Yeah. Let’s get back to 39. He’s waiting for us at the fire.” Many footsteps and shuffling, and the sounds all faded away. Andrew shook, and eased open the door. Bodies, battered, ripped and shot, lay strewn in the light of a chemtorch that had been wedged in a wall crack. He looked down at his own hand. It gripped his beam gun, cocked and ready, and now useless.

He moved off along the understreet. Its edges and curves and surfaces settled into a familiar pattern: the ceiling, arched just slightly; an ancient set of peeling conduits, held by brackets, running along the top of the corridor arch to feed the now-darkened lamps; a rhythm of apertures left and right as he passed them, door, door, window, arched passage, window. This place had once been his neighborhood. Debris strewed itself from one side of the way to the other, heaped and scattered as if by an overpowering wind. Here and there lay bodies, curing in acrid smoke.

Story List	SURPRISE ME	Author Page
USER SURVEY	PUZZLE ME	MAKE ELM MARK

HOVER Lucida Bright BARE	HOVER Lucida Bright FULL	HOVER Palatino Linotype BARE
HOVER Palatino Linotype FULL	HOVER Times New Roman BARE	HOVER Times New Roman FULL
PAD Arial BARE	PAD Arial FULL	PAD Lucida Bright BARE
PAD Lucida Bright FULL	PAD Times New Roman BARE	PAD Times New Roman FULL


	SMEARED WITH A SOFT LOOK 1563 4D “Goodbye, Angie,” Andrew said. Another loss. Another damn loss. He stared into a smothering void, listened, and wriggled his way out to a black corridor stinking of cooked plastics and flesh. He quietly shucked his smashed carapiece, stripped out all the supplies he could carry in his coverall, and faced left. Down this way he knew of two heat-exchange conduits that ran up and then across to Sobi. Could he risk light? Maybe he didn’t need to. He reached his way along, hearing faint explosions through the rock, their echoes booming in the stifling darkness. Angie‘s voice had been so sweet and alive. She— but she wasn’t a person. But she had given him so much. Was she like that for all of them? Or like a man? Andrew tripped over a body, his foot clicking against a hard shell. A carapiece? Or was it chitin? He stepped over it very slowly, trying to make no sound, and moved on. He found the first conduit closet, its door still intact. When he opened it, a draft of slightly-cooler air touched his face. This would do. With his fingers he located the heat-exchange conduits with their layers of insulation. The transit up to Sobi 636 took him twenty minutes of cramped climbing and crawling alongside the pipes. When he dropped out in a pitch-black closet, his arms and legs shook, and the fetid air seemed to resist his efforts to draw it in and push it out of his lungs. A scream penetrated the closet door like a steel spike. It rang extremely high and loud, a meteor of sound traversing a blind sky, and cut off. Andrew fumbled for the door handle, and then froze. A loud angry gabble of voices just outside the door, ending in, “That’s it! Pig! You’ll go like he just did. See?” A coarse tenor voice spat the words with precision. A brief gleam of green flashed dimly at Andrew‘s feet. “No, please let us go. We didn’t make trouble.” A man’s terrified alto, whining. “Shut up. You’re taking stuff out, aren’t you? Let’s see what you’ve got, nocock.” Tenor again. “Brace his legs apart, like this,” a deeper smooth male tone broke in. “Then we can—“ “Yeah! Yeah!” A chorus of shouts, then the ripping of fabric. The sounds of a scuffle and more shouts faded slightly; Andrew guessed they had moved away from the door. He opened it a crack and peered out, seeing one tall man, held by four others in street armor and old helms, his coverall around his ankles; another man lying dead just by the closet door, a long sharp steel shaft through his belly and spine; and a third victim, slighter and thinner, in the grip of several more armored and helmed men. A powerful figure faced the tall man, its back to Andrew, its carapiece and helm looming malignantly against the glow of a chemtorch shining on the tall man’s face, a face smeared with the soft look of terror. “Turn around, pig.” The armored apparition slapped the tall man across his cheek, and he obeyed. The terrorized look ate into Andrew until he could feel his own face taking it on, taking it up like an old friend and wearing it once more. This look he could see on himself without a mirror, the unmanned look, the castrated look, the look that pleaded hopelessly in the face of intent and predatory evil, the look Andrew himself had worn so often in the vast shed where Arlen‘s corpos had tortured him night after night. He wanted to stop these creatures, whoever or whatever they were, from doing more, but their victim’s emotion consumed him, the man’s fear vomited itself into his muscles and veins and weakened him, and he closed the door softly, to hear only a soft exhalation that rose into a faint cry, and then faded to silence. A shot. Then another, closer. The voices picked up again. “Got everything? The stuff on that woman, too?” The tenor. “Yeah. Let’s get back to 39. He’s waiting for us at the fire.” Many footsteps and shuffling, and the sounds all faded away. Andrew shook, and eased open the door. Bodies, battered, ripped and shot, lay strewn in the light of a chemtorch that had been wedged in a wall crack. He looked down at his own hand. It gripped his beam gun, cocked and ready, and now useless. He moved off along the understreet. Its edges and curves and surfaces settled into a familiar pattern: the ceiling, arched just slightly; an ancient set of peeling conduits, held by brackets, running along the top of the corridor arch to feed the now-darkened lamps; a rhythm of apertures left and right as he passed them, door, door, window, arched passage, window. This place had once been his neighborhood. Debris strewed itself from one side of the way to the other, heaped and scattered as if by an overpowering wind. Here and there lay bodies, curing in acrid smoke.