Descending Road - METERING by Dana W. Paxson

METERING

2416 CE

Above the dispenser control panel, Wenrock had mounted a clock so the Hole‘s occupant could see it. The clock was a two-row white-on-black number matrix displaying Earth year, month, day, hour, minute, second, and click in its bottom row, and Uranian year, Oberonian month, Uranian day, hour, minute, second, and click in its top row. The pain grew like a fire creature with molten teeth fastened in Doug‘s arm, worrying its way up to his shoulder.

The worst of it was keeping the arm perfectly still. The regen tanks back on Earth always had cradles for the limbs and plenty of Met to kill the pain. Here the Met was in Wenrock‘s hands to dole out, and the lack of cradles meant that the penman in the Hole had to stabilize the regenerating limb by himself, insuring that the budding flesh and bone didn’t touch anything but the fluid. If he failed, and thrashed, and banged it against the tank‘s wall, he’d have to have it chopped free and restarted. Here, without Met. In the fluid, he couldn’t scream. He’d tried.

He trembled. The clock’s Uranian second changed from 24 to 25. Wait. Come 26. Come 27. Doug shifted; he’d never make it this time, not three shifts like this. How had he forgotten the last time?

He slowly moved his stump up in front of his face. It glowed golden in the dim light; the tiny currents of cellstock seethed like a swarm of insects around coalescing tissue, bubbled and flashed dark ruby and cobalt and turned pale as they devoured away dead skin and carbonized bone and shreds of blackened tendon, and assembled a new hand for him.

A shadow flitted across his vision: Wenrock in the observation room, a stubby, broad-bodied man as strong and tough as a badger, his face a permanent tight-angled squint, his arms and hands powerful enough to break a man’s arms bone by bone, like Luther’s the year before.

“You made your ten,” Wenrock said, in his soft deep voice. “I guess I won’t make you do five. That’s an improvement, isn’t it, Douglas? Amazing what motivation can do, isn’t it?”

Five? Wenrock had never said five. He’d said four if Doug hadn’t made the ten-minute dive into the Hole. Doug held up three fingers and raised his eyebrows. The beast’s fire teeth chewed at his collarbone.

“Three? What an imagination, Douglas!” Soft and lazy. “You owed me one already, so that’s four. But if you prefer, I can raise it to five. Would you like that? Can you move your head yes or no, Douglas?”

Doug shook his head No. Four shifts he would have to make now like this, burning all through. He fumbled at his waist for the wafer — had he brought it?

Wenrock‘s eyes followed his hand. “You know, Douglas, I’ve reconsidered. I’ll reward your speedy return this time, with a half-shift of Met. Would that feel better?” Wenrock put his index finger on a data panel under the clock.

There. The wafer hung safely from his waist chain, and Wenrock was cutting the penalty to three and a half shifts. The flames spreading up his neck, he looked at Wenrock and nodded, trying to keep his movement slow and smooth. Wenrock pressed a button on the panel, and almost immediately Doug‘s body filled with softness. The burning moved away from him; his muscles relaxed. Drowsiness came to float him into sleep.

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


	METERING 2416 CE Above the dispenser control panel, Wenrock had mounted a clock so the Hole‘s occupant could see it. The clock was a two-row white-on-black number matrix displaying Earth year, month, day, hour, minute, second, and click in its bottom row, and Uranian year, Oberonian month, Uranian day, hour, minute, second, and click in its top row. The pain grew like a fire creature with molten teeth fastened in Doug‘s arm, worrying its way up to his shoulder. The worst of it was keeping the arm perfectly still. The regen tanks back on Earth always had cradles for the limbs and plenty of Met to kill the pain. Here the Met was in Wenrock‘s hands to dole out, and the lack of cradles meant that the penman in the Hole had to stabilize the regenerating limb by himself, insuring that the budding flesh and bone didn’t touch anything but the fluid. If he failed, and thrashed, and banged it against the tank‘s wall, he’d have to have it chopped free and restarted. Here, without Met. In the fluid, he couldn’t scream. He’d tried. He trembled. The clock’s Uranian second changed from 24 to 25. Wait. Come 26. Come 27. Doug shifted; he’d never make it this time, not three shifts like this. How had he forgotten the last time? He slowly moved his stump up in front of his face. It glowed golden in the dim light; the tiny currents of cellstock seethed like a swarm of insects around coalescing tissue, bubbled and flashed dark ruby and cobalt and turned pale as they devoured away dead skin and carbonized bone and shreds of blackened tendon, and assembled a new hand for him. A shadow flitted across his vision: Wenrock in the observation room, a stubby, broad-bodied man as strong and tough as a badger, his face a permanent tight-angled squint, his arms and hands powerful enough to break a man’s arms bone by bone, like Luther’s the year before. “You made your ten,” Wenrock said, in his soft deep voice. “I guess I won’t make you do five. That’s an improvement, isn’t it, Douglas? Amazing what motivation can do, isn’t it?” Five? Wenrock had never said five. He’d said four if Doug hadn’t made the ten-minute dive into the Hole. Doug held up three fingers and raised his eyebrows. The beast’s fire teeth chewed at his collarbone. “Three? What an imagination, Douglas!” Soft and lazy. “You owed me one already, so that’s four. But if you prefer, I can raise it to five. Would you like that? Can you move your head yes or no, Douglas?” Doug shook his head No. Four shifts he would have to make now like this, burning all through. He fumbled at his waist for the wafer — had he brought it? Wenrock‘s eyes followed his hand. “You know, Douglas, I’ve reconsidered. I’ll reward your speedy return this time, with a half-shift of Met. Would that feel better?” Wenrock put his index finger on a data panel under the clock. There. The wafer hung safely from his waist chain, and Wenrock was cutting the penalty to three and a half shifts. The flames spreading up his neck, he looked at Wenrock and nodded, trying to keep his movement slow and smooth. Wenrock pressed a button on the panel, and almost immediately Doug‘s body filled with softness. The burning moved away from him; his muscles relaxed. Drowsiness came to float him into sleep.