Descending Road - INTO THE HOLE by Dana W. Paxson

INTO THE HOLE

2416 CE

The clear sounded; Doug opened the inner hatch and pushed into the circuit passage that ringed the hive’s core, then vaulted and bounced along the toroidal passage, its away lining streaked and marred by thousands of boots and gloves and lugged objects used to deflect their owners on around the hive. He caromed one last time, finding the hatch to the Hole, and his heart pounded.

At the entrance, Geordie waited, blond sharp frown and scrawny body. He and Doug were both wiry, medium-height men; Geordie‘s face was square-jawed, and Doug‘s was rounder, with dark hair and chin-grizzle. Doug‘s heart always lifted to see Geordie; they were like two Scottish brothers.

“Douglas, not again! What did Wenrock do when you told him?”

“Notched me three, and one more if I don’t get wet in ten.” They extracted Doug from his suit; he stripped to his inner liner, Geordie filling in for his missing hand.

“That’s too much!” Geordie put a shepherding arm around Doug and guided him into the Hole‘s prep chamber. “Well, you’re here now, and I’ll see you won’t lose the fourth.” His voice dropped to a whisper in Doug‘s ear. “Here’s the scrubber, and your wafer. I made sure you’d get it.” He kissed Doug on the neck.

“Thanks. See you next shift.” Doug settled into the scrub routine as the lock closed behind him. He stripped off the liner and removed the blood-soaked tourniquet from his scorched stump. No nurses here, but Geordie made up for that. Mask up, let the drug tubes crawl down your throat, take a last clear breath, grip your wafer, dive into the Hole and let the Hole take over.

The Hole was a miracle that saved the pens’ lives for their daily hell. Filled with a cell-generating macrofluid, it grew back missing limbs and organs as if they had never been gone, assembling vital tissues out of its vast stock of suspended components, patterning them with the genes of the recipient, filling them in with its bridging nanostructures that somehow harmonized with the body’s immunochemistry and the cantankerous nervous system. Most of the time.

As the orange wetness crawled up Doug‘s body, he remembered Gerald‘s howling. Gerald had been a dry boy, a new volunteer from Earth. A staph reaction, probably left over from the young man’s Earth life, had spread a wash of by-product through his body; the Hole, instead of rebuilding his missing kneecap, had eaten him alive.

Though the prep fluid was as warm as his blood, Doug shivered.

The liquid reached Doug‘s mouth and nose; slowly, laboriously, he inhaled, letting its hyperoxygen supply sustain his blood. In here he took one breath every three minutes, movements slow and graceful. Too bad he wouldn’t get the Met he needed to kill the pain when his stump began to grow him a new hand.

The prep fluid flushed away, the yellow-green-tinted builder-juice replaced it, and the warmth of the Hole caressed Doug‘s skin, seeped into his brain. His mind slowed; he stared away into the Hole‘s tiny observation room, with its dispenser panel for feeding drugs to the Hole‘s occupant. The light shone red, as if a fire burned outside the Hole to warm him. His right wrist began to tingle. So soon — this would be very bad.

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


	INTO THE HOLE 2416 CE The clear sounded; Doug opened the inner hatch and pushed into the circuit passage that ringed the hive’s core, then vaulted and bounced along the toroidal passage, its away lining streaked and marred by thousands of boots and gloves and lugged objects used to deflect their owners on around the hive. He caromed one last time, finding the hatch to the Hole, and his heart pounded. At the entrance, Geordie waited, blond sharp frown and scrawny body. He and Doug were both wiry, medium-height men; Geordie‘s face was square-jawed, and Doug‘s was rounder, with dark hair and chin-grizzle. Doug‘s heart always lifted to see Geordie; they were like two Scottish brothers. “Douglas, not again! What did Wenrock do when you told him?” “Notched me three, and one more if I don’t get wet in ten.” They extracted Doug from his suit; he stripped to his inner liner, Geordie filling in for his missing hand. “That’s too much!” Geordie put a shepherding arm around Doug and guided him into the Hole‘s prep chamber. “Well, you’re here now, and I’ll see you won’t lose the fourth.” His voice dropped to a whisper in Doug‘s ear. “Here’s the scrubber, and your wafer. I made sure you’d get it.” He kissed Doug on the neck. “Thanks. See you next shift.” Doug settled into the scrub routine as the lock closed behind him. He stripped off the liner and removed the blood-soaked tourniquet from his scorched stump. No nurses here, but Geordie made up for that. Mask up, let the drug tubes crawl down your throat, take a last clear breath, grip your wafer, dive into the Hole and let the Hole take over. The Hole was a miracle that saved the pens’ lives for their daily hell. Filled with a cell-generating macrofluid, it grew back missing limbs and organs as if they had never been gone, assembling vital tissues out of its vast stock of suspended components, patterning them with the genes of the recipient, filling them in with its bridging nanostructures that somehow harmonized with the body’s immunochemistry and the cantankerous nervous system. Most of the time. As the orange wetness crawled up Doug‘s body, he remembered Gerald‘s howling. Gerald had been a dry boy, a new volunteer from Earth. A staph reaction, probably left over from the young man’s Earth life, had spread a wash of by-product through his body; the Hole, instead of rebuilding his missing kneecap, had eaten him alive. Though the prep fluid was as warm as his blood, Doug shivered. The liquid reached Doug‘s mouth and nose; slowly, laboriously, he inhaled, letting its hyperoxygen supply sustain his blood. In here he took one breath every three minutes, movements slow and graceful. Too bad he wouldn’t get the Met he needed to kill the pain when his stump began to grow him a new hand. The prep fluid flushed away, the yellow-green-tinted builder-juice replaced it, and the warmth of the Hole caressed Doug‘s skin, seeped into his brain. His mind slowed; he stared away into the Hole‘s tiny observation room, with its dispenser panel for feeding drugs to the Hole‘s occupant. The light shone red, as if a fire burned outside the Hole to warm him. His right wrist began to tingle. So soon — this would be very bad.