Descending Road - FERDINAND'S BODY by Dana W. Paxson

FERDINAND’S BODY

1560 4D

Usually leaving innerspace is just a matter of walking out through the doorway in the mind one used in order to enter. The trouble is that I don’t know where I entered, and I don’t know where my body might be, if it even exists.

I ask the Archive, “What is the current date?”

An ainon, a lovely female, appears facing me. “What date would you like it to be?”

This is not funny. “I entered here in 1529 4D. How much time has passed?” If the answer is anything other than 1529, my body may be long dead, but then how am I still existing here?

“The passage of time lies outside the Archives,” she says. “What periods are you researching?”

This makes no sense at all. I test her. “Let’s make it 1637 4D.”

“You are not licensed to search that period.” She chuckles. An odd light radiates from her, not like anything I’ve seen here before.

But now we’re getting somewhere. “What periods am I licensed to search?”

“You are permitted searches up through 1560 4D. Later dates are forbidden.”

“Who is forbidding them?”

“We are.”

“Oh. All right. Where is my body in 1560 4D?”

“Do you wish to leave innerspace now?”

“Yes, if my body is working.”

She starts laughing. That light of hers intensifies and I shade my eyes a little. A violet thread trickles off the edge of my vision – it’s gone. There’s too much Woman in ths ainon. Her scent presses in on me with tomes of strangeness.

I ask, “Is something funny?”

“You’ll see. Shall I say goodbye to Talu Tribin for you?”

That hurts. The ainons aren’t cruel – why is she saying this? It angers me. “I’m done with her. Show me the way.”

She points to a door in a nearby wall, and I open it and step through.

My body is working, all right – it just isn’t working too well. I float in some gelatinous translucency, my lungs and throat blocked. My limbs will not move. I can jerk my head and heave my guts, though, so I do those things, and the world swivels top to bottom and dumps me, naked, soaking wet, and slimy, onto a stone floor in a darkened understreet.

The only light comes from a single ceiling lamp. The stink of vomit and an odd accent of geraniol assail my nose. I puke up fluid until my lungs can claw some air in. My eyes feel as if they’ve been sanded with diamond dust. I lie on one elbow gasping until the air around me shifts and I look up at a great mass of jelly that moves with a purpose, filling the street almost to the ceiling and the walls on either side. With a contrabass rumbling, it trundles off down the street, bulking higher and sagging lower in waves, leaving dampness, sizzling broken ceiling lamps, and me in its wake.

I have no idea what that thing was.

It’s time to find – who was it? A name surfaces: Kuklagrad; I find stairs and darkened streets and stumble at last in the halflight into the arms of Bujilla, who looks considerably older than I remember her. At least I remember her.

She stares at me, appalled. “Ferdinand? You’re not dead? It’s been thirty years!”

I gather the few shreds of dignity a naked, stinking, glaucous, destitute, male andro can manage. “No, my dear, I’ve been in rehabilitation. I was supposed to meet someone here. I guess I’m late. Have you got a spare slipsuit I could pull on?”

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


	FERDINAND’S BODY 1560 4D Usually leaving innerspace is just a matter of walking out through the doorway in the mind one used in order to enter. The trouble is that I don’t know where I entered, and I don’t know where my body might be, if it even exists. I ask the Archive, “What is the current date?” An ainon, a lovely female, appears facing me. “What date would you like it to be?” This is not funny. “I entered here in 1529 4D. How much time has passed?” If the answer is anything other than 1529, my body may be long dead, but then how am I still existing here? “The passage of time lies outside the Archives,” she says. “What periods are you researching?” This makes no sense at all. I test her. “Let’s make it 1637 4D.” “You are not licensed to search that period.” She chuckles. An odd light radiates from her, not like anything I’ve seen here before. But now we’re getting somewhere. “What periods am I licensed to search?” “You are permitted searches up through 1560 4D. Later dates are forbidden.” “Who is forbidding them?” “We are.” “Oh. All right. Where is my body in 1560 4D?” “Do you wish to leave innerspace now?” “Yes, if my body is working.” She starts laughing. That light of hers intensifies and I shade my eyes a little. A violet thread trickles off the edge of my vision – it’s gone. There’s too much Woman in ths ainon. Her scent presses in on me with tomes of strangeness. I ask, “Is something funny?” “You’ll see. Shall I say goodbye to Talu Tribin for you?” That hurts. The ainons aren’t cruel – why is she saying this? It angers me. “I’m done with her. Show me the way.” She points to a door in a nearby wall, and I open it and step through. My body is working, all right – it just isn’t working too well. I float in some gelatinous translucency, my lungs and throat blocked. My limbs will not move. I can jerk my head and heave my guts, though, so I do those things, and the world swivels top to bottom and dumps me, naked, soaking wet, and slimy, onto a stone floor in a darkened understreet. The only light comes from a single ceiling lamp. The stink of vomit and an odd accent of geraniol assail my nose. I puke up fluid until my lungs can claw some air in. My eyes feel as if they’ve been sanded with diamond dust. I lie on one elbow gasping until the air around me shifts and I look up at a great mass of jelly that moves with a purpose, filling the street almost to the ceiling and the walls on either side. With a contrabass rumbling, it trundles off down the street, bulking higher and sagging lower in waves, leaving dampness, sizzling broken ceiling lamps, and me in its wake. I have no idea what that thing was. It’s time to find – who was it? A name surfaces: Kuklagrad; I find stairs and darkened streets and stumble at last in the halflight into the arms of Bujilla, who looks considerably older than I remember her. At least I remember her. She stares at me, appalled. “Ferdinand? You’re not dead? It’s been thirty years!” I gather the few shreds of dignity a naked, stinking, glaucous, destitute, male andro can manage. “No, my dear, I’ve been in rehabilitation. I was supposed to meet someone here. I guess I’m late. Have you got a spare slipsuit I could pull on?”