Descending Road - IN THEIR TINY HANDS by Dana W. Paxson

IN THEIR TINY HANDS

In ten days, forty shixen have come from the vat, full-sized, eyes goggled in astonishment, ready to cling to anything warm and soft. In the remaining twenty days, I synthesize my cytomegalo-plague for the City‘s inhabitants. I feed it to the shixen, packaged in the bacteria I place in the fruit I give them.

The day comes, and Mama Jones arrives at my lab door. “Is it ready?”

“Yes. It was hard work.” As I lie to her, I sweep the door open to show her the table where the shixen loll tumbled on their backs in a clump, munching on the soft blue-green kwakiat fruit they hold in their tiny hands.

The girl’s pinhole eyes widen into dark amazement, and she approaches the table. “They’re beautiful.” I haven’t heard such words from any of these children before. She extends a hand to one of them.

It feels her warmth, and takes hold of her thumb with its fingers. Then it drops the kwakiat and comes to her shoulder, hand over hand, tail-nubbin wagging. It sits against her left ear and makes a soft musical note in its throat.

She grins. “Now we can walk with the rich ones, and taaalk the waaay they dooo.” She mimics perfectly the vowel tonings of the well-dressed curiosity-seekers who used to come to see me in my prison. Then she whistles piercingly, and the children crowd into the doorway.

The children take the shixen onto their bodies, feed them, pet them, croon to them; the shixen sing in response. It is instant bonding.

Mama Jones smiles at me, but her eyes are once again pinpricks of black in their red-target irises. “You did what I asked. But what else did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“You are not tired. Your eyes tell me things. What did you do to these animals?”

“I made them as you asked.” Always a positive statement, never a denial.

“We’ll see.” She tosses her head slightly, then grins provocatively at me. An amazing girl.

How perfectly she manages her speech, gliding without effort from the gutter-sounds of her filthy companions to the elegant, incisive, musical ironies of the wealthy women she sees through pitiless child eyes. When the demorphin begins its work, I must be very careful with her.

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


	IN THEIR TINY HANDS 6303 Arcus In ten days, forty shixen have come from the vat, full-sized, eyes goggled in astonishment, ready to cling to anything warm and soft. In the remaining twenty days, I synthesize my cytomegalo-plague for the City‘s inhabitants. I feed it to the shixen, packaged in the bacteria I place in the fruit I give them. The day comes, and Mama Jones arrives at my lab door. “Is it ready?” “Yes. It was hard work.” As I lie to her, I sweep the door open to show her the table where the shixen loll tumbled on their backs in a clump, munching on the soft blue-green kwakiat fruit they hold in their tiny hands. The girl’s pinhole eyes widen into dark amazement, and she approaches the table. “They’re beautiful.” I haven’t heard such words from any of these children before. She extends a hand to one of them. It feels her warmth, and takes hold of her thumb with its fingers. Then it drops the kwakiat and comes to her shoulder, hand over hand, tail-nubbin wagging. It sits against her left ear and makes a soft musical note in its throat. She grins. “Now we can walk with the rich ones, and taaalk the waaay they dooo.” She mimics perfectly the vowel tonings of the well-dressed curiosity-seekers who used to come to see me in my prison. Then she whistles piercingly, and the children crowd into the doorway. The children take the shixen onto their bodies, feed them, pet them, croon to them; the shixen sing in response. It is instant bonding. Mama Jones smiles at me, but her eyes are once again pinpricks of black in their red-target irises. “You did what I asked. But what else did you do?” “What do you mean?” “You are not tired. Your eyes tell me things. What did you do to these animals?” “I made them as you asked.” Always a positive statement, never a denial. “We’ll see.” She tosses her head slightly, then grins provocatively at me. An amazing girl. How perfectly she manages her speech, gliding without effort from the gutter-sounds of her filthy companions to the elegant, incisive, musical ironies of the wealthy women she sees through pitiless child eyes. When the demorphin begins its work, I must be very careful with her.