Descending Road - POETRY KNIFED INTO HIS BRAIN by Dana W. Paxson

POETRY KNIFED INTO HIS BRAIN

1561 4D

Indrio had gone. In his great chamber in the City, flopped in the huge sofa that ringed the center table in the room, Arlen stared moodily at the databook, with its holo display of the strange signals dancing above it. Now what? He’d have to wait for the physicists to report, and wait again, and he did not like waiting for others.

Idly he plugged the databook into the table panel, to link it to the rechargers and the ArCorp compfabric. No harm in being safe. He said, “Book, save content.” Backing up this precious stuff for himself would be a good idea.

He wanted to go over the day’s reports from the andro farms, see what was causing the viral spoilage. But the signal dancing on the databook gave him an idea; he changed his mind. “Book, play content.”

“Desired form?” The book’s female voice responded.

“Oh, why not music? Music.” Arlen leaned back and closed his eyes. It would at least make an interesting problem for the autotranslator.

The strange song rose inside Arlen as soft as starshine, and spiraled up into his head, louder, bursting, fecund, gripping; he sat alone in his great chamber, high at the center of the great underground City called Gran Dar, and rocked in fear and wonder, staring, afraid to call out to his guards outside and make it end, afraid to let it continue and consume him. The walls of the chamber swirled ochre and cinnamon, streaked with piercing, racing green as if the surface itself answered the music pouring into his mind.

He surrendered himself to the melody, slowly gave it control of him just the way he’d given himself to Indrio‘s fingers and lips and teeth and skin; it promised more than ecstasy, more than exaltation, more than secrets. His breathing came faster, and he laid back on the wide sofa. History, cosmology, poetry knifed into his brain, budded, flowered, seeded whole fields of awareness; for a fleeting instant, he knew the tensor Word of creation.

Uncontrollable, the song drew him up into itself, its voice urging him higher and farther out and deeper, words shaping in tongues he had never heard in all his four hundred fifty years, kissing the edges of his being, touching him with unbearably scented and orgasmic joy.

It stopped. His eyes snapped open; he stared around. The darkened walls of his chamber flickered slightly in brown honey and deep sapphire, cleared to sky and sea shades, and settled back to their usual neutral gray. He struggled to the wall to swipe his fingers along the smooth surface, trying to find out why it responded to the music, straining to hear the singing once again.

It was gone. In utter frustration, he slapped his large hand against the changing wall, skittering a shock-ring of pale blue out from the point of impact. Maybe this was some weapon the insurgents had found, but no, they had nothing like this. He knew every weapon made since the Colonists had set foot on this world, down through all four dynasties. This was no human weapon.

The databook‘s holo image was gone. What had happened? He tried to restart the music, to experience it again, but there was nothing. He accessed the backup. It was noise; he had interrupted it before it could finish. Thwarted, he wheeled, searching the chamber for some clue to the vanished song, calling vainly to the databook to show him the music again.

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	POETRY KNIFED INTO HIS BRAIN 1561 4D Indrio had gone. In his great chamber in the City, flopped in the huge sofa that ringed the center table in the room, Arlen stared moodily at the databook, with its holo display of the strange signals dancing above it. Now what? He’d have to wait for the physicists to report, and wait again, and he did not like waiting for others. Idly he plugged the databook into the table panel, to link it to the rechargers and the ArCorp compfabric. No harm in being safe. He said, “Book, save content.” Backing up this precious stuff for himself would be a good idea. He wanted to go over the day’s reports from the andro farms, see what was causing the viral spoilage. But the signal dancing on the databook gave him an idea; he changed his mind. “Book, play content.” “Desired form?” The book’s female voice responded. “Oh, why not music? Music.” Arlen leaned back and closed his eyes. It would at least make an interesting problem for the autotranslator. The strange song rose inside Arlen as soft as starshine, and spiraled up into his head, louder, bursting, fecund, gripping; he sat alone in his great chamber, high at the center of the great underground City called Gran Dar, and rocked in fear and wonder, staring, afraid to call out to his guards outside and make it end, afraid to let it continue and consume him. The walls of the chamber swirled ochre and cinnamon, streaked with piercing, racing green as if the surface itself answered the music pouring into his mind. He surrendered himself to the melody, slowly gave it control of him just the way he’d given himself to Indrio‘s fingers and lips and teeth and skin; it promised more than ecstasy, more than exaltation, more than secrets. His breathing came faster, and he laid back on the wide sofa. History, cosmology, poetry knifed into his brain, budded, flowered, seeded whole fields of awareness; for a fleeting instant, he knew the tensor Word of creation. Uncontrollable, the song drew him up into itself, its voice urging him higher and farther out and deeper, words shaping in tongues he had never heard in all his four hundred fifty years, kissing the edges of his being, touching him with unbearably scented and orgasmic joy. It stopped. His eyes snapped open; he stared around. The darkened walls of his chamber flickered slightly in brown honey and deep sapphire, cleared to sky and sea shades, and settled back to their usual neutral gray. He struggled to the wall to swipe his fingers along the smooth surface, trying to find out why it responded to the music, straining to hear the singing once again. It was gone. In utter frustration, he slapped his large hand against the changing wall, skittering a shock-ring of pale blue out from the point of impact. Maybe this was some weapon the insurgents had found, but no, they had nothing like this. He knew every weapon made since the Colonists had set foot on this world, down through all four dynasties. This was no human weapon. The databook‘s holo image was gone. What had happened? He tried to restart the music, to experience it again, but there was nothing. He accessed the backup. It was noise; he had interrupted it before it could finish. Thwarted, he wheeled, searching the chamber for some clue to the vanished song, calling vainly to the databook to show him the music again.