Descending Road - MAKING A COAT OF PAINT by Dana W. Paxson

MAKING A COAT OF PAINT

They bring me food every day. They clean me and my clothes, ignoring their own incrustations of street filth that never seem, somehow, to cling to what is mine. I create the poisons in the first two days, and give them to Mama Jones. She grins and vanishes. Now, after five days, she brings a newly-dead streetrat into my lab, and tosses it onto the central table where I am running a gene-expression synthesizer.

Streetrats are black-coated rodents with long naked prehensile tails, and claws that can find purchase in the sheer faces of rock that line the City. Over my thousands of wall-years I have watched them evolve from creatures the length of my little finger to monsters with bodies as long as my forearm. What the children of the streets leave behind, the streetrats eat.

“Is this my dinner?” I stare at Mama Jones.

She laughs. I have never heard any sound like this: a grating giggle that chokes itself off, then bursts out again, over and over. “No,” she says, finally.

“A gift?”

“No. What can you do with it?”

Again I have underestimated her. She apparently understands what my lab is for. I weigh the possibilities; maybe this is the opening to my freedom. I inspect the dead animal. “What would you like me to do with it?”

“Grow some new ones. Make them pets for us.”

Aah. This is wonderful. I try to conceal my glee, but I’m sure she notices it. “All right. This will take some time. Maybe a year.” This is too long for her, I know.

“Thirty days.” It is a statement of limitation.

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Thirty days.” She makes a sign with her hand, and three boys appear from the front room. Another sign from her, and they all turn and leave.

I maneuver my flowchair to the lab door, and secure the door as best I can against further visits. Twenty days are window dressing. This plan of mine will take about ten days; in that time, I will have the desired pets ready, with a few important additions.

First, I will send a message out through the droppings of these pets. An intestinal bacterial resident, one I know quite well, will carry a most interesting cytomegalovirus. Cytomegaly is the merging of cells due to the breakdown of cell walls, as when the City breaks down the walls between small apartments to create a large meeting-chamber.

But my virus will bear another burden: the immunoharmonizer that was, long ago, my signature. When the virus infects someone, it will begin the selective merging of their cells and the breakdown of their musculature and bone; little by little, they will become immobile, dissolve, and begin to spread helplessly in a carpet across their stone floors, merging into each other as they meet. Thanks to other retroviral transfers, their cells will be reeducated to draw sustenance from the air and stone and water itself, even from the beetles and other creatures that scutter across them as they lie like coatings everywhere.

Only their brains and senses will remain whole, to contemplate their changes. They will become one vast coat of human paint throughout the City. As once I was, in my wall.

Of course, this will take much time, and I create clocking genes that will trigger in later viral generations to begin the transformations only after the rodents have spread everywhere. Some few people may be resistant, most likely these children, but I have saved the children for the last.

I have a special surprise for them.

My new animals will enjoy being scratched on the neck and under the ears. That is where I will put the secretory glands for demorphin, which will be clocked through a few generations before they are expressed. Demorphin is an opioid a thousand times as potent as morphine. Once the glands begins their work, the children will pet these new creatures, take up the opioid through their fingers and mouths, and they will stop feeling pain. Pleasure will rule them.

What a gift pain is. Once it is removed this way, life will follow soon after.

When I am done, the children will be gone, and I will regenerate my legs in the tanks I have not yet opened. Then I will walk the streets of the City, immune, and enjoy my masterwork.

I smile, and begin.

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


	MAKING A COAT OF PAINT 6303 Arcus They bring me food every day. They clean me and my clothes, ignoring their own incrustations of street filth that never seem, somehow, to cling to what is mine. I create the poisons in the first two days, and give them to Mama Jones. She grins and vanishes. Now, after five days, she brings a newly-dead streetrat into my lab, and tosses it onto the central table where I am running a gene-expression synthesizer. Streetrats are black-coated rodents with long naked prehensile tails, and claws that can find purchase in the sheer faces of rock that line the City. Over my thousands of wall-years I have watched them evolve from creatures the length of my little finger to monsters with bodies as long as my forearm. What the children of the streets leave behind, the streetrats eat. “Is this my dinner?” I stare at Mama Jones. She laughs. I have never heard any sound like this: a grating giggle that chokes itself off, then bursts out again, over and over. “No,” she says, finally. “A gift?” “No. What can you do with it?” Again I have underestimated her. She apparently understands what my lab is for. I weigh the possibilities; maybe this is the opening to my freedom. I inspect the dead animal. “What would you like me to do with it?” “Grow some new ones. Make them pets for us.” Aah. This is wonderful. I try to conceal my glee, but I’m sure she notices it. “All right. This will take some time. Maybe a year.” This is too long for her, I know. “Thirty days.” It is a statement of limitation. “I’ll do what I can.” “Thirty days.” She makes a sign with her hand, and three boys appear from the front room. Another sign from her, and they all turn and leave. I maneuver my flowchair to the lab door, and secure the door as best I can against further visits. Twenty days are window dressing. This plan of mine will take about ten days; in that time, I will have the desired pets ready, with a few important additions. First, I will send a message out through the droppings of these pets. An intestinal bacterial resident, one I know quite well, will carry a most interesting cytomegalovirus. Cytomegaly is the merging of cells due to the breakdown of cell walls, as when the City breaks down the walls between small apartments to create a large meeting-chamber. But my virus will bear another burden: the immunoharmonizer that was, long ago, my signature. When the virus infects someone, it will begin the selective merging of their cells and the breakdown of their musculature and bone; little by little, they will become immobile, dissolve, and begin to spread helplessly in a carpet across their stone floors, merging into each other as they meet. Thanks to other retroviral transfers, their cells will be reeducated to draw sustenance from the air and stone and water itself, even from the beetles and other creatures that scutter across them as they lie like coatings everywhere. Only their brains and senses will remain whole, to contemplate their changes. They will become one vast coat of human paint throughout the City. As once I was, in my wall. Of course, this will take much time, and I create clocking genes that will trigger in later viral generations to begin the transformations only after the rodents have spread everywhere. Some few people may be resistant, most likely these children, but I have saved the children for the last. I have a special surprise for them. My new animals will enjoy being scratched on the neck and under the ears. That is where I will put the secretory glands for demorphin, which will be clocked through a few generations before they are expressed. Demorphin is an opioid a thousand times as potent as morphine. Once the glands begins their work, the children will pet these new creatures, take up the opioid through their fingers and mouths, and they will stop feeling pain. Pleasure will rule them. What a gift pain is. Once it is removed this way, life will follow soon after. When I am done, the children will be gone, and I will regenerate my legs in the tanks I have not yet opened. Then I will walk the streets of the City, immune, and enjoy my masterwork. I smile, and begin.