Descending Road - FERDINAND IS LATE by Dana W. Paxson

FERDINAND IS LATE

1560 4D

Bujilla drags me out in back, shoves me in a showerstall, and hands me a scrubber. “Slipsuit will be outside,” she says, and goes back to work. I clean up.

My body has a freshness I’ve never noticed. Maybe it’s the lack of Beefheart and Conosoid and the rest of the chemicals no longer oozing through me. It’s troublesome, though, because everything that touches me seems to be trying to say something to me. Getting into the slipsuit and closing its seams is an exercise in tactile oratory.

“I have no coin,” I tell Bujilla as I come out to the tables to sit. Her eyes go over me like hands; she comes to me and ever so tenderly embraces me.

“You look so… young. You didn’t die? But you’re andro! How… wait. You’re a clone, right?” She moves back, her hands on my forearms, and looks me up and down again, a soft smile on her face, her eyes wide.

“No, I’m Ferdinand. I don’t know how all this happened. I remember parts of things.” I look off to the corner where… Pazzan? used to stand, usually just humming a little polytonal song, waiting for customers. I miss him already. He’d have died three times over by now, with his ten-year lifespan.

Bujilla sees my sad look, and says, “I miss him too.” She holds up a small ovoid of crystal with a tiny structure of crescents embedded at its heart in the shape of a radiating flower, like a rosette. The crescents are lit in andro colors, and I recognize Pazzan‘s favorite tints. These are his dyed nail-parings, set permanently in a crystalline pseudometal.

Andros are genetically programmed to die after ten years out of the vat. It’s a very clean process. They dry to husks within hours of appearance of the tiny cataracts: the first symptoms of death’s onset. The body moisture seems to evaporate like steam through the breath and the skin. Not much left for the cleaners to sweep up. But sometimes a lover will take the nails and make a small tribute of them as a keepsake. Bujilla‘s hand closes gently over the crystal, and she tucks it back in her suit.

Maybe someone would have made a flower of my nail-cuttings, if I had gone on living. But I think I remember I wanted to die alone, so that probably wouldn’t have happened.

Another andro works for Bujilla now. “Inguiniar,” she whispers to me, nodding toward the back rooms. The place is nearly empty. A lone andro girl, her hair held back in a clip shaped like a clenching hand, sits at one table sipping a drink and scowling at the wall.

“One of your regulars?” I ask.

“That’s Annie. She works with some cleaner guy. She likes it down here when she’s not with him.”

“Bujilla, could I just wait here for a bit? I don’t know, but I thought someone wanted me to meet him here. Or her – I’m not sure.”

“I haven’t seen anyone looking for someone else here, not for a long time. Maybe it’s Annie.”

I walk over to the table where the andro girl is sitting. She glares up at me, her eyes narrowed, her jaw set. Then her expression softens, her eyes relax, and she says clearly, “Go away, droid man.”

That was rude, especially from another andro. I turn and find another table. So I’m thirty years late. Waiting here seems like a stupid idea, and I’ll need to earn some coin. I get up again.

“Bujilla, I’ll get some metal and pay you for the suit. Thanks.”

“You’re not leaving yet, are you?” She joins me at the table and takes my arm – we sit down. The sensi is blasting its familiar overload, showing me how little has changed in all the time that passed. The newstales march and hop here and there across the wallscreen, dragging the eye all over the place, rubbing ideas like flint and steel for unexpected sparks. All carefully planned and organized to raise anxiety and lower resistance, as always.

A click on the table. Inguiniar, a slim, short andro man, leaves a pair of drinks in front of me: Beefheart, and a brewtank full of something that makes my eyes water. The Beefheart tea leaves swirl in the glass, reminding me of the effect the tea has on my brain, and I push the glass away. The brewtank seems no better. But the sensi is pouring its torrent of overload onto me, and I want so much to down the drinks and put up their thin shield against it all.

But then there’d be the Conosoid, and the KPX, and the met, and… I raise my arms to cover my ears, lowering my head. It’s too much again – the sweet confections of clashing events tempt me again to gobble them like a child in a candy garden, gorge until I fall apart and then…

“Ferdinand.” Bujilla‘s hands take my face, and she stares into my eyes, the sensi jumping and dancing now in the background.

Jestice is under this channel, I know, and if I just shift my saccadics a bit, I’ll see it gnawing at the liars whose signal it is stealing. “I can’t be here with this,” I tell her.

She shushes me – her hands fall away, and her eyes stray to devour the sensi unreeling another of its newstale outrages. I get up and retreat to the corner with Inguiniar, where the sensi isn’t so loud and bright. I stand facing the wall, muttering soothing words I barely hear above the pulsing broadcast broadband death.

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 IS LATE 1560 4D Bujilla drags me out in back, shoves me in a showerstall, and hands me a scrubber. “Slipsuit will be outside,” she says, and goes back to work. I clean up. My body has a freshness I’ve never noticed. Maybe it’s the lack of Beefheart and Conosoid and the rest of the chemicals no longer oozing through me. It’s troublesome, though, because everything that touches me seems to be trying to say something to me. Getting into the slipsuit and closing its seams is an exercise in tactile oratory. “I have no coin,” I tell Bujilla as I come out to the tables to sit. Her eyes go over me like hands; she comes to me and ever so tenderly embraces me. “You look so… young. You didn’t die? But you’re andro! How… wait. You’re a clone, right?” She moves back, her hands on my forearms, and looks me up and down again, a soft smile on her face, her eyes wide. “No, I’m Ferdinand. I don’t know how all this happened. I remember parts of things.” I look off to the corner where… Pazzan? used to stand, usually just humming a little polytonal song, waiting for customers. I miss him already. He’d have died three times over by now, with his ten-year lifespan. Bujilla sees my sad look, and says, “I miss him too.” She holds up a small ovoid of crystal with a tiny structure of crescents embedded at its heart in the shape of a radiating flower, like a rosette. The crescents are lit in andro colors, and I recognize Pazzan‘s favorite tints. These are his dyed nail-parings, set permanently in a crystalline pseudometal. Andros are genetically programmed to die after ten years out of the vat. It’s a very clean process. They dry to husks within hours of appearance of the tiny cataracts: the first symptoms of death’s onset. The body moisture seems to evaporate like steam through the breath and the skin. Not much left for the cleaners to sweep up. But sometimes a lover will take the nails and make a small tribute of them as a keepsake. Bujilla‘s hand closes gently over the crystal, and she tucks it back in her suit. Maybe someone would have made a flower of my nail-cuttings, if I had gone on living. But I think I remember I wanted to die alone, so that probably wouldn’t have happened. Another andro works for Bujilla now. “Inguiniar,” she whispers to me, nodding toward the back rooms. The place is nearly empty. A lone andro girl, her hair held back in a clip shaped like a clenching hand, sits at one table sipping a drink and scowling at the wall. “One of your regulars?” I ask. “That’s Annie. She works with some cleaner guy. She likes it down here when she’s not with him.” “Bujilla, could I just wait here for a bit? I don’t know, but I thought someone wanted me to meet him here. Or her – I’m not sure.” “I haven’t seen anyone looking for someone else here, not for a long time. Maybe it’s Annie.” I walk over to the table where the andro girl is sitting. She glares up at me, her eyes narrowed, her jaw set. Then her expression softens, her eyes relax, and she says clearly, “Go away, droid man.” That was rude, especially from another andro. I turn and find another table. So I’m thirty years late. Waiting here seems like a stupid idea, and I’ll need to earn some coin. I get up again. “Bujilla, I’ll get some metal and pay you for the suit. Thanks.” “You’re not leaving yet, are you?” She joins me at the table and takes my arm – we sit down. The sensi is blasting its familiar overload, showing me how little has changed in all the time that passed. The newstales march and hop here and there across the wallscreen, dragging the eye all over the place, rubbing ideas like flint and steel for unexpected sparks. All carefully planned and organized to raise anxiety and lower resistance, as always. A click on the table. Inguiniar, a slim, short andro man, leaves a pair of drinks in front of me: Beefheart, and a brewtank full of something that makes my eyes water. The Beefheart tea leaves swirl in the glass, reminding me of the effect the tea has on my brain, and I push the glass away. The brewtank seems no better. But the sensi is pouring its torrent of overload onto me, and I want so much to down the drinks and put up their thin shield against it all. But then there’d be the Conosoid, and the KPX, and the met, and… I raise my arms to cover my ears, lowering my head. It’s too much again – the sweet confections of clashing events tempt me again to gobble them like a child in a candy garden, gorge until I fall apart and then… “Ferdinand.” Bujilla‘s hands take my face, and she stares into my eyes, the sensi jumping and dancing now in the background. Jestice is under this channel, I know, and if I just shift my saccadics a bit, I’ll see it gnawing at the liars whose signal it is stealing. “I can’t be here with this,” I tell her. She shushes me – her hands fall away, and her eyes stray to devour the sensi unreeling another of its newstale outrages. I get up and retreat to the corner with Inguiniar, where the sensi isn’t so loud and bright. I stand facing the wall, muttering soothing words I barely hear above the pulsing broadcast broadband death.