Descending Road - IT’S ALREADY DONE by Dana W. Paxson

IT’S ALREADY DONE

1563 4D

He took the two-person maintenance lift, giving ID he had stolen from a lightpipe repairman’s kit. The lift dropped him, jerking from side to side, to Sobi Zone’s Level 641. When the lift stopped, an unfamiliar giddiness made him fall against one side of the lift. What was wrong? He closed his eyes and steadied himself with his hands. The feeling passed; the lift door opened, and the festival music from the street hit him, stood him up, kissed his heart.

In Sobi the music bounced and joggled and pushed and pried into every corner, every crevice, every secret of every body. Music breathed and drank and ate and loved for everyone. This night began Corsang Run, a birth-festival that Frei had never missed. He smiled into the sizzle and stomp, and moved out into counterdancing streams of women and men carrying babies and small children, women nursing, women with giant childbearing bellies that led them forward through canopies of pale green biofronds and burning red and yellow curtains of city flowers hanging out on arbors from the streetwalls, dripping geraniol and cinnamon scent.

This night the men played the music and the women danced. The beat seized Frei and sucked him into the current, and he rode it down to the high-domed crossing where the sloping spiral way met the straight radial and curved circumferential corridors. Here the dance snaked and forked and joined line after line of celebrants in a boiling chaos of arms and legs and hot breath and sweat and sex.

No one could fall; the bodies and hands held each other up. Voices chanted and wailed against the ceiling arch, soaring and diving again into the noise and laughter, sending words ricocheting against bells and drums and hopes and fears. Frei grinned. It was so right.

Parthren whirled in front of him and stopped, her hands out to meet his. She cocked her head and sniffed. He froze.

Her nostrils formed two lines of five small oval holes each alongside her single low nasal ridge. She had two beautiful eyes, large and gray-violet, and a long mouth. Her lips, narrow at her mouth’s corners, bloomed to fullness at the center. She smiled mischievously at Frei as she leaned forward to his ear. “Hello, kitten,” she said. “What have you got for me? Did you bring back Tintirella?”

Her canizard. Frei‘s hand found his jector. “Arlen sent me to you,” he said, raising his voice over the beat. Bodies bumped them.

“Arlen? Oh yes, he would do that. Then you must be his. Does he give you to me?”

“N… No. He says he has food for you to cook, though. And this.” Frei produced the small sphere and held it close between them.

“Ooh! For me?” Parthren snatched the sphere from Frei and squeezed it in her hand. She opened her hand again. Empty. “Be glad you are his tonight, you thief. For Tintirella I would take your little life. But Arlen…" Parthren bent close and sniffed Frei‘s neck. “For touching his woman, Arlen will do you much worse. Ha! It’s already done.” And she vanished in a swirl of heavy-scented fronds.

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


	IT’S ALREADY DONE 1563 4D He took the two-person maintenance lift, giving ID he had stolen from a lightpipe repairman’s kit. The lift dropped him, jerking from side to side, to Sobi Zone’s Level 641. When the lift stopped, an unfamiliar giddiness made him fall against one side of the lift. What was wrong? He closed his eyes and steadied himself with his hands. The feeling passed; the lift door opened, and the festival music from the street hit him, stood him up, kissed his heart. In Sobi the music bounced and joggled and pushed and pried into every corner, every crevice, every secret of every body. Music breathed and drank and ate and loved for everyone. This night began Corsang Run, a birth-festival that Frei had never missed. He smiled into the sizzle and stomp, and moved out into counterdancing streams of women and men carrying babies and small children, women nursing, women with giant childbearing bellies that led them forward through canopies of pale green biofronds and burning red and yellow curtains of city flowers hanging out on arbors from the streetwalls, dripping geraniol and cinnamon scent. This night the men played the music and the women danced. The beat seized Frei and sucked him into the current, and he rode it down to the high-domed crossing where the sloping spiral way met the straight radial and curved circumferential corridors. Here the dance snaked and forked and joined line after line of celebrants in a boiling chaos of arms and legs and hot breath and sweat and sex. No one could fall; the bodies and hands held each other up. Voices chanted and wailed against the ceiling arch, soaring and diving again into the noise and laughter, sending words ricocheting against bells and drums and hopes and fears. Frei grinned. It was so right. Parthren whirled in front of him and stopped, her hands out to meet his. She cocked her head and sniffed. He froze. Her nostrils formed two lines of five small oval holes each alongside her single low nasal ridge. She had two beautiful eyes, large and gray-violet, and a long mouth. Her lips, narrow at her mouth’s corners, bloomed to fullness at the center. She smiled mischievously at Frei as she leaned forward to his ear. “Hello, kitten,” she said. “What have you got for me? Did you bring back Tintirella?” Her canizard. Frei‘s hand found his jector. “Arlen sent me to you,” he said, raising his voice over the beat. Bodies bumped them. “Arlen? Oh yes, he would do that. Then you must be his. Does he give you to me?” “N… No. He says he has food for you to cook, though. And this.” Frei produced the small sphere and held it close between them. “Ooh! For me?” Parthren snatched the sphere from Frei and squeezed it in her hand. She opened her hand again. Empty. “Be glad you are his tonight, you thief. For Tintirella I would take your little life. But Arlen…" Parthren bent close and sniffed Frei‘s neck. “For touching his woman, Arlen will do you much worse. Ha! It’s already done.” And she vanished in a swirl of heavy-scented fronds.