Descending Road - MINSHILLINDAR by Dana W. Paxson

MINSHILLINDAR

There. So much better: a tuck here, several darts there, a bath of immunoharmonizers and adhesors, and the skin is mine. The mirrors show me a thin man, his eyes jealous and deep-set with the hunger for life, his muscles wasted to strings from his long immuration, his powerful fingernails hooking out through his new, naked wrapping. I pat my new head of tousled black hair and grin, all iridescent teeth, long thin lips. Handsome demon.

Always I find my way back home. What will they do when they find the burst-open wall, the missing living statue that once entertained them? By now the craft of minshillindar has been forgotten, that ancient trick of prison bioengineering that embedded me in that wall for all time.

All time has ended. I am in the apocalyptic now.

I am the apocalyptic now.

Once I was one of the Mondracen myself, an ordinary son of exceptionally-gifted parents. Too ordinary for them, I was; they fed me the favored neurotransforms of the wealthy, to amplify my gifts to meet their expectations, hoping for a son who would ascend to City rule. But one gift, well hidden in me, became amplified far beyond all the others: the gift of cruelty. When I learned the deep art of genetic fabrication, I became what they called a monster.

A sound from the entryway makes me stop moving. I had closed the wall behind me; perhaps one of the nimble rats has followed me home. Concealed by the lab door, I wait.

A small human figure, wearing cloth tatters of a coverall woven with spangles of colored metal, moves in total silence, stealthy, toward my couch.

Maybe it would offer me nourishment, maybe its genes could have news for mine. I would merely need to store it in my vats, unwind the skeined knowledge from its cells, and mate its new chemistry to my ancient version.

Its head is large, covered with plastered slabs of black straight hair. A child. How did it get in? It stops at the table; its bony fingers trail through the dust. It freezes in place. Its hand darts out, seizes a beetle, brings the struggling blue-black creature to its teeth. Three bites, and the beetle is gone, a wiry hind leg kicking one last futile time as it passes the child’s lips.

Something unfamiliar kindles in me, a sense of kinship with this small hunter. Has my imprisonment softened my temperament? I blink twice, and the child’s eyes are on me.

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


	MINSHILLINDAR 6303 Arcus There. So much better: a tuck here, several darts there, a bath of immunoharmonizers and adhesors, and the skin is mine. The mirrors show me a thin man, his eyes jealous and deep-set with the hunger for life, his muscles wasted to strings from his long immuration, his powerful fingernails hooking out through his new, naked wrapping. I pat my new head of tousled black hair and grin, all iridescent teeth, long thin lips. Handsome demon. Always I find my way back home. What will they do when they find the burst-open wall, the missing living statue that once entertained them? By now the craft of minshillindar has been forgotten, that ancient trick of prison bioengineering that embedded me in that wall for all time. All time has ended. I am in the apocalyptic now. I am the apocalyptic now. Once I was one of the Mondracen myself, an ordinary son of exceptionally-gifted parents. Too ordinary for them, I was; they fed me the favored neurotransforms of the wealthy, to amplify my gifts to meet their expectations, hoping for a son who would ascend to City rule. But one gift, well hidden in me, became amplified far beyond all the others: the gift of cruelty. When I learned the deep art of genetic fabrication, I became what they called a monster. A sound from the entryway makes me stop moving. I had closed the wall behind me; perhaps one of the nimble rats has followed me home. Concealed by the lab door, I wait. A small human figure, wearing cloth tatters of a coverall woven with spangles of colored metal, moves in total silence, stealthy, toward my couch. Maybe it would offer me nourishment, maybe its genes could have news for mine. I would merely need to store it in my vats, unwind the skeined knowledge from its cells, and mate its new chemistry to my ancient version. Its head is large, covered with plastered slabs of black straight hair. A child. How did it get in? It stops at the table; its bony fingers trail through the dust. It freezes in place. Its hand darts out, seizes a beetle, brings the struggling blue-black creature to its teeth. Three bites, and the beetle is gone, a wiry hind leg kicking one last futile time as it passes the child’s lips. Something unfamiliar kindles in me, a sense of kinship with this small hunter. Has my imprisonment softened my temperament? I blink twice, and the child’s eyes are on me.