Descending Road - HALF-NAKED by Dana W. Paxson

HALF-NAKED

1563 4D

Rennie ducked out and in, several times, and made his way almost to Aswar Nagrasai, until no more back ways presented themselves. Ezzar rested on the floor, her damaged leg straight out. He put one hand against the rock wall of the cubby, still lined with shelves of grainmeal cartons, and hung his head. “I never should have shot out that cannon. My reflexes beat my brains.”

Ezzar looked up at him. “Sure, and then a whole bunch of people would be dead from it.”

“But then you wouldn’t be busted up, and us cornered here, and shit, EZ, what are you doing here with me getting hurt anyway?” He shook his head.

“You know the answer.” She wanted to hold his face between her hands.

“But I don’t like it.”

“Deal with it. Now what?” A hubbub of voices rose in the distance outside the cubby. “Is it them?”

Rennie looked out. He chuckled. “No. But maybe it’s a fuckup we can use. They’re marching a lot of SRDs through the crossing, I can’t understand why now, when they haven’t even secured it.”

Ezzar laughed harshly. SRD: a staged relocative downsizing, the government called it. “You’re joking. They’re running a relocation right now? During a war?” Maybe a war gave the City an opportunity for this kind of uprooting. Bitter thought.

“Yes, indeed. Some of them look wounded or sick. Children with others, everybody carrying bundles and boxes and pulling handwagons, a few autocarts, lots of clothes on. They know winter’s coming.”

“See any guards?”

“The usual corpos and some militia. Mostly DurCorp and RhoCorp, a few ArCorp people. Nothing unusual, for one of these.” Rennie came back to Ezzar‘s side.

She frowned. “So you want to join them, just melt in? Or what?”

“Use them as cover and slide through. We’ll have to hide the weapons and helms somehow, or leave them here for the fighters to find. I don’t want to do that.”

“Me neither. Let’s go, then. Those guys should be getting too close by now. We’d better put the helms to sleep. Right, Angie?” Ezzar‘s leg burned deep and hot.

“Right. Wakeup time is you saying, Birdtails and mousefeathers. I’m off for a nap.” The helm dimmed and went out; Ezzar removed it and stowed it.

“No, put it in mine and leave yours with just ordinary stuff in it,” Rennie said, switching Ezzar‘s helm and ammunition to join his own in his carapiece. Working frantically, hands flying, he broke down the guns, stuffed the smaller pieces in his carapiece along with his helm, and slung the longer struts and barrels along his inner thighs, inside his coverall. He scooped up Ezzar behind his carapiece, gathering her upper legs gently in his hands, and slipped out into the understreet, hugging the nearest wall.

Straining her neck, Ezzar looked back. The dim light showed a few soldiers back in the street behind them, poking into one of the earlier shops, their attention fixed on the shop entrance. Up ahead of them, the crossing, its gaudy shop decorations shadowed and muted, lay choked with a procession of people and vehicles and a few animals, all shepherded by now-anxious guards. Autocarts whined slowly along, piled high with fragile boxes and battered furnishings; a van or two, stuffed with staring curious sad faces old and young and their jumbled belongings, stopped and started; wagons shook and rattled with browned cookware, grimy toys, bedrolls and a few robotools: duogrippers, torques, micromains; carapieces bulged, leaking wisps and folds of cloth, bowing the backs of their wearers; soft backpacks, towering high, bobbed through the press; ragged children ran everywhere and rode shoulders and arms, still enjoying this eerie unexpected family outing; parents and elders shouted and called to them, fearfully staring off into the many nowheres approaching them from every side, their eyes and mouths squinting open and shut against this impossible promenade; a few andros lugged boxes and pushed carts, or carried children or aged adults; and music, soft, insistent, the music of Corsang Run, murmured, pounded furtively here and there, vanishing where irate guards advanced, springing up again defiantly in the concealment of the crowd, making the backpacks and hats and fashion helms and carapieces and wagons sketch and mark the rhythms of the festival, mocking the soldiers and corpos who bellowed and glowered and gestured them all into the broad descending spiral way that led to the northward rail depot far below.

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


	HALF-NAKED 1563 4D Rennie ducked out and in, several times, and made his way almost to Aswar Nagrasai, until no more back ways presented themselves. Ezzar rested on the floor, her damaged leg straight out. He put one hand against the rock wall of the cubby, still lined with shelves of grainmeal cartons, and hung his head. “I never should have shot out that cannon. My reflexes beat my brains.” Ezzar looked up at him. “Sure, and then a whole bunch of people would be dead from it.” “But then you wouldn’t be busted up, and us cornered here, and shit, EZ, what are you doing here with me getting hurt anyway?” He shook his head. “You know the answer.” She wanted to hold his face between her hands. “But I don’t like it.” “Deal with it. Now what?” A hubbub of voices rose in the distance outside the cubby. “Is it them?” Rennie looked out. He chuckled. “No. But maybe it’s a fuckup we can use. They’re marching a lot of SRDs through the crossing, I can’t understand why now, when they haven’t even secured it.” Ezzar laughed harshly. SRD: a staged relocative downsizing, the government called it. “You’re joking. They’re running a relocation right now? During a war?” Maybe a war gave the City an opportunity for this kind of uprooting. Bitter thought. “Yes, indeed. Some of them look wounded or sick. Children with others, everybody carrying bundles and boxes and pulling handwagons, a few autocarts, lots of clothes on. They know winter’s coming.” “See any guards?” “The usual corpos and some militia. Mostly DurCorp and RhoCorp, a few ArCorp people. Nothing unusual, for one of these.” Rennie came back to Ezzar‘s side. She frowned. “So you want to join them, just melt in? Or what?” “Use them as cover and slide through. We’ll have to hide the weapons and helms somehow, or leave them here for the fighters to find. I don’t want to do that.” “Me neither. Let’s go, then. Those guys should be getting too close by now. We’d better put the helms to sleep. Right, Angie?” Ezzar‘s leg burned deep and hot. “Right. Wakeup time is you saying, Birdtails and mousefeathers. I’m off for a nap.” The helm dimmed and went out; Ezzar removed it and stowed it. “No, put it in mine and leave yours with just ordinary stuff in it,” Rennie said, switching Ezzar‘s helm and ammunition to join his own in his carapiece. Working frantically, hands flying, he broke down the guns, stuffed the smaller pieces in his carapiece along with his helm, and slung the longer struts and barrels along his inner thighs, inside his coverall. He scooped up Ezzar behind his carapiece, gathering her upper legs gently in his hands, and slipped out into the understreet, hugging the nearest wall. Straining her neck, Ezzar looked back. The dim light showed a few soldiers back in the street behind them, poking into one of the earlier shops, their attention fixed on the shop entrance. Up ahead of them, the crossing, its gaudy shop decorations shadowed and muted, lay choked with a procession of people and vehicles and a few animals, all shepherded by now-anxious guards. Autocarts whined slowly along, piled high with fragile boxes and battered furnishings; a van or two, stuffed with staring curious sad faces old and young and their jumbled belongings, stopped and started; wagons shook and rattled with browned cookware, grimy toys, bedrolls and a few robotools: duogrippers, torques, micromains; carapieces bulged, leaking wisps and folds of cloth, bowing the backs of their wearers; soft backpacks, towering high, bobbed through the press; ragged children ran everywhere and rode shoulders and arms, still enjoying this eerie unexpected family outing; parents and elders shouted and called to them, fearfully staring off into the many nowheres approaching them from every side, their eyes and mouths squinting open and shut against this impossible promenade; a few andros lugged boxes and pushed carts, or carried children or aged adults; and music, soft, insistent, the music of Corsang Run, murmured, pounded furtively here and there, vanishing where irate guards advanced, springing up again defiantly in the concealment of the crowd, making the backpacks and hats and fashion helms and carapieces and wagons sketch and mark the rhythms of the festival, mocking the soldiers and corpos who bellowed and glowered and gestured them all into the broad descending spiral way that led to the northward rail depot far below.