Descending Road - YOU THINK I AM LIKE YOU by Dana W. Paxson

YOU THINK I AM LIKE YOU

Silence is now. I lie and think. A small rattle beside me; one of the beetles is still alive. I reach out and spear a nail through it.

It tastes good: fresh, meaty, with that tinge of metallics the beetles always seem to carry. Lying on my side, on the stone floor of my ancient hideaway, I dine, making a neat heap of the beetle shells.

These children have read me well. I must reach deeper within myself to escape their readings, and arrive where I can continue my little work of time.

The first thing will be the lab. From it I will make things for them, at first. Then, later, when I can exact payment for my truncated body, I will make for myself.

The dinner I have eaten drags at me. Warmth creeps from my belly out through my trunk and my limbs, embracing with pleasure even the seared and scorching stumps of my legs.

Amazing sleep. In all the time of my immuration, I never lost awareness; the ichor they poured into my veins made that a certainty. But now I have blood once more, and with blood, sleep slides warmly in. My eyes weigh shut, and I turn slowly onto my back and breathe once, twice, and then, for the second time, I dream of Alayre.

“Wake up.” Thin, tough hands rub my cheeks. The girl looks down at me. “We have something for you.”

I have slept for hours. Two boys stand on the other side of my room, a lumpy dark-red object between them. A flowchair, a rounded seat that moves slowly across uneven surfaces on a single broadfooted trunk of a leg. The leg is a slug-like living plastic the people of this era have engineered; I would have preferred a faster means of movement, but the boys seem proud of their present to me.

I smile. “Can you help me up into it?”

Six of the larger children come and loft me up and into the waiting seat. My stumps have been dressed with skinseal, and they burn only slightly through its anesthetic.

The girl comes to stand in front of me, glaring with those red-black eyes. “You will work for us,” she says. Her mouth is a lovely bud of sensuous lips, tightly pursed when she is not speaking. Her nose is barely a ridge, as if some force had pressed it back almost level with her face; her nostrils, almost slits, widen and flatten again, disconcertingly, when she is thinking. She is thinking right now. She gestures toward the lab. “You make things here. Make us the things we want, and we’ll let you live.”

“What do you want?”

“Poison.” She smiles.

“What kind of poison? What should it do? Kill people?”

“No. Make them sick. I want them to live that way. It should be something without taste or smell, that they can eat in their food.”

Now I smile. “I can do what you want.” How many times I have already done this thing, I can’t remember any more.

“Good. Start now.” She turns and walks to the entranceway, then looks back at me with a smirk. “You think I am like you, but I’m not. Remember that.”

“I will.” I urge my chair toward the lab door. “Do you have a name?”

“Mama Jones.”

Her rosebud lips, her smirk, remind me of Alayre.

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


	YOU THINK I AM LIKE YOU 6303 Arcus Silence is now. I lie and think. A small rattle beside me; one of the beetles is still alive. I reach out and spear a nail through it. It tastes good: fresh, meaty, with that tinge of metallics the beetles always seem to carry. Lying on my side, on the stone floor of my ancient hideaway, I dine, making a neat heap of the beetle shells. These children have read me well. I must reach deeper within myself to escape their readings, and arrive where I can continue my little work of time. The first thing will be the lab. From it I will make things for them, at first. Then, later, when I can exact payment for my truncated body, I will make for myself. The dinner I have eaten drags at me. Warmth creeps from my belly out through my trunk and my limbs, embracing with pleasure even the seared and scorching stumps of my legs. Amazing sleep. In all the time of my immuration, I never lost awareness; the ichor they poured into my veins made that a certainty. But now I have blood once more, and with blood, sleep slides warmly in. My eyes weigh shut, and I turn slowly onto my back and breathe once, twice, and then, for the second time, I dream of Alayre. “Wake up.” Thin, tough hands rub my cheeks. The girl looks down at me. “We have something for you.” I have slept for hours. Two boys stand on the other side of my room, a lumpy dark-red object between them. A flowchair, a rounded seat that moves slowly across uneven surfaces on a single broadfooted trunk of a leg. The leg is a slug-like living plastic the people of this era have engineered; I would have preferred a faster means of movement, but the boys seem proud of their present to me. I smile. “Can you help me up into it?” Six of the larger children come and loft me up and into the waiting seat. My stumps have been dressed with skinseal, and they burn only slightly through its anesthetic. The girl comes to stand in front of me, glaring with those red-black eyes. “You will work for us,” she says. Her mouth is a lovely bud of sensuous lips, tightly pursed when she is not speaking. Her nose is barely a ridge, as if some force had pressed it back almost level with her face; her nostrils, almost slits, widen and flatten again, disconcertingly, when she is thinking. She is thinking right now. She gestures toward the lab. “You make things here. Make us the things we want, and we’ll let you live.” “What do you want?” “Poison.” She smiles. “What kind of poison? What should it do? Kill people?” “No. Make them sick. I want them to live that way. It should be something without taste or smell, that they can eat in their food.” Now I smile. “I can do what you want.” How many times I have already done this thing, I can’t remember any more. “Good. Start now.” She turns and walks to the entranceway, then looks back at me with a smirk. “You think I am like you, but I’m not. Remember that.” “I will.” I urge my chair toward the lab door. “Do you have a name?” “Mama Jones.” Her rosebud lips, her smirk, remind me of Alayre.