Descending Road - SPEAKING WITH HANDS by Dana W. Paxson

SPEAKING WITH HANDS

2411 CE

Doug glanced at the older man beside him. “I’m Doug.”

“I’m Werner. Watch your ass here. Use a little Russian if you know any. If you see a big guy called Turchenko, stay away from him. He’ll rip you a new asshole as soon as spit on you.” Werner‘s hair was gray, short, and bristly; a long, livid scar ran across his scalp diagonally from above his left eye to a spot above and behind his right ear.

The chill ate deeper into Doug. “You mean bodily, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Werner stared straight ahead. “Last time, I bought him off. You better find something to pay him with, or you’ll be one of his nanny-goats, his kozyol, in a flash. You know noktok?”

Doug nodded slowly. He brought up a manacled hand to scratch his belly, where Werner could see it, but no one else in the line could. Noktok, or “knock-talk”, was a term for the centuries-old prisoner’s telegraph: tapping out messages on a pipe, flashing them with a piece of glass or metal, or signaling them with a finger movement. He had to find out whether the knock-talk used here was the five-by-five, or the six-by-six, or something else. He pressed one finger after another into his belly, counting to five and pausing.

Werner shook his head a little. Doug started over again with one, and Werner stopped him immediately. Five plus one. So it was a six-by-six code, to handle the Cyrillic alphabet. Doug glanced at Werner, who now had his hand on his thigh, signaling as they shambled along: C-A-L-L-M-E-R-E-D-F-O-X. Call me Red Fox.

Doug replied the same way: C-A-L-L-M-E-W-O-R-D-W-I-Z. ‘Dog Tired’ had been his nickname at Dannemora, but he didn’t dare use it again, not if someone there had turned. EmpCo always kept its prisoner dossiers up to date. ‘Word Wiz' would prevent them from linking him to an intercepted message.

They finally reached a long, low barracks building. Its windows were now hidden by hinged panels folded down from the eaves to the side walls, shielding the interior from the blasting chill. The entire carload of prisoners shuffled up the narrow steps at one end to enter a tomblike darkness. A single fluorescent bulb in a steel cage at the center of the ceiling went on, revealing a pair of three-tier bunk-bed rows with ends facing a central aisle. Three vertical roof supports made of black and rusty iron stood spaced along the center of the aisle.

Doug‘s bladder sent shooting pains through him; he wanted to double over. The guards moved methodically along the chain, releasing each prisoner. Two of them came to Doug; one, a tall, dark-haired young man with a bony face, looked him over and said, “You need the latrine, nyet?”

“Da,” Doug said, his voice low.

“Here is my first gift to you.” The guard paused for several long seconds. “You may go.” He waved his hand toward one end of the barracks.

“Spaseba,” Doug muttered, and tried to shuffle slowly down the aisle; he lasted four steps and broke into a run. The guards roared with laughter as he passed. He turned and raced into a room with a row of bare toilets waiting, and reached the first one just in time. Two other men were right behind him.

When he returned, the guards were gone, and the prisoners milled around, chatting in groups. Doug located Werner and three others, and joined them.

“That was a gift,” he said to them.

Werner raised one corner of his mouth. “That’s Pylyshyn. The more Russian you can use, with respect, the better he’ll treat you. Not like Gordyev. He doesn’t care what you do or say.”

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


	SPEAKING WITH HANDS 2411 CE Doug glanced at the older man beside him. “I’m Doug.” “I’m Werner. Watch your ass here. Use a little Russian if you know any. If you see a big guy called Turchenko, stay away from him. He’ll rip you a new asshole as soon as spit on you.” Werner‘s hair was gray, short, and bristly; a long, livid scar ran across his scalp diagonally from above his left eye to a spot above and behind his right ear. The chill ate deeper into Doug. “You mean bodily, don’t you?” “Yes.” Werner stared straight ahead. “Last time, I bought him off. You better find something to pay him with, or you’ll be one of his nanny-goats, his kozyol, in a flash. You know noktok?” Doug nodded slowly. He brought up a manacled hand to scratch his belly, where Werner could see it, but no one else in the line could. Noktok, or “knock-talk”, was a term for the centuries-old prisoner’s telegraph: tapping out messages on a pipe, flashing them with a piece of glass or metal, or signaling them with a finger movement. He had to find out whether the knock-talk used here was the five-by-five, or the six-by-six, or something else. He pressed one finger after another into his belly, counting to five and pausing. Werner shook his head a little. Doug started over again with one, and Werner stopped him immediately. Five plus one. So it was a six-by-six code, to handle the Cyrillic alphabet. Doug glanced at Werner, who now had his hand on his thigh, signaling as they shambled along: C-A-L-L-M-E-R-E-D-F-O-X. Call me Red Fox. Doug replied the same way: C-A-L-L-M-E-W-O-R-D-W-I-Z. ‘Dog Tired’ had been his nickname at Dannemora, but he didn’t dare use it again, not if someone there had turned. EmpCo always kept its prisoner dossiers up to date. ‘Word Wiz' would prevent them from linking him to an intercepted message. They finally reached a long, low barracks building. Its windows were now hidden by hinged panels folded down from the eaves to the side walls, shielding the interior from the blasting chill. The entire carload of prisoners shuffled up the narrow steps at one end to enter a tomblike darkness. A single fluorescent bulb in a steel cage at the center of the ceiling went on, revealing a pair of three-tier bunk-bed rows with ends facing a central aisle. Three vertical roof supports made of black and rusty iron stood spaced along the center of the aisle. Doug‘s bladder sent shooting pains through him; he wanted to double over. The guards moved methodically along the chain, releasing each prisoner. Two of them came to Doug; one, a tall, dark-haired young man with a bony face, looked him over and said, “You need the latrine, nyet?” “Da,” Doug said, his voice low. “Here is my first gift to you.” The guard paused for several long seconds. “You may go.” He waved his hand toward one end of the barracks. “Spaseba,” Doug muttered, and tried to shuffle slowly down the aisle; he lasted four steps and broke into a run. The guards roared with laughter as he passed. He turned and raced into a room with a row of bare toilets waiting, and reached the first one just in time. Two other men were right behind him. When he returned, the guards were gone, and the prisoners milled around, chatting in groups. Doug located Werner and three others, and joined them. “That was a gift,” he said to them. Werner raised one corner of his mouth. “That’s Pylyshyn. The more Russian you can use, with respect, the better he’ll treat you. Not like Gordyev. He doesn’t care what you do or say.”