Descending Road - I AM A PART OF THE by Dana W. Paxson

I AM A PART OF THE

Several days of testing and Gengine analysis on the tissue samples showed me that everything I designed fell into place. But my changes apparently interacted with a series of andro upgrade viruses to create a vast range of wild mutations. A terrible suspicion comes over me, and I wait impatiently until Mama Jones returns with her escorts for the daily visit.

To my stupefied surprise, she comes to me and kisses me on the lips. I can say nothing for several breaths.

“Take me back to that couple, please,” I ask her.

“It has spread further,” she tells me. “We are going to join it too. That will leave you alone. Will you be all right?”

She actually cares for me? The thought beats at my defenses, and I repel it. “I will live,” I say. “Just leave me the cart with the wheels. Now take me to the couple you showed me before.”

They trundle me out to the understreet, and everything there has changed again. The walls and ceiling are living flesh, heads and sleeping faces pushing out from the stone surface like plant growths. Different skin tones span long reaches of the walls, making swirls of contrast here and there; a few stubby hands hang limp from the tissue-mass, evidently unneeded. It has happened faster than I imagined it could.

I push my way to a sleeping face. It was once an andro woman, pale-skinned; now she is a webbed smear of white among many darker colors. “Talk to me,” I say.

Her eyes open. “What?”

“Talk to me!”

“What do you want?” Her eyes start to sag shut again.

I slap what was once her cheek. A ripple passes out from the slap as in the water in a pond. All over the street, eyes pop open and peer out.

They are all interconnected.

I scan down the street. Few bare stretches of stone exist any more; it is as if the whole street has become one being.

I lean closer to the andro woman’s face. “Are you hooked to everyone else?”

She answers without opening her eyes. “We are one. The wires and pipes are a part of us.”

“Who are you?”

“I am part of the comm system,” she says drowsily. “Once I was a sex toy. Now I live everywhere. In this street I care for the wires and lightpipes. It is good.”

“It is good.” Voices chorus from up and down the street.

Frustration burns in me. The andro genes, capable of fusing nerve tissue and photonic and electronic linkages, must have done this. I thrust my cart forward, reach up to a man’s sleeping face, seize it by the nose, and twist. “And what is your job?”

At my abuse of him, the wall quivers and surges back and forth. “I am the air regulator. I control the oxygen level here in the City‘s depths. I have many faces. It is good.”

“It is good,” comes the chorus again. I cover my ears, too late. The chorus rises in a welling of celebration.

“I am the waste transport.”

“I am the wall anchor for this street.”

“We are the lamp regulators.”

“I grow blood-food in my belly.”

“We dream for the City.”

The babble of voices rises, and then coalesces into a croon, a random song that harmonizes itself and soars through the City air. I sit stunned. They must be lying. Their freedom is gone; how can they be other than vegetables, their awarenesses dulled somehow? I rub my hand along the skin of something that was once a human being, but then I realize that it is little Furusi, the plates of stiffened colored paper still clinging to his flattened chest as he stands now against the wall, a part of it. I stare at him. He giggles.

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


	I AM A PART OF THE 6303 Arcus Several days of testing and Gengine analysis on the tissue samples showed me that everything I designed fell into place. But my changes apparently interacted with a series of andro upgrade viruses to create a vast range of wild mutations. A terrible suspicion comes over me, and I wait impatiently until Mama Jones returns with her escorts for the daily visit. To my stupefied surprise, she comes to me and kisses me on the lips. I can say nothing for several breaths. “Take me back to that couple, please,” I ask her. “It has spread further,” she tells me. “We are going to join it too. That will leave you alone. Will you be all right?” She actually cares for me? The thought beats at my defenses, and I repel it. “I will live,” I say. “Just leave me the cart with the wheels. Now take me to the couple you showed me before.” They trundle me out to the understreet, and everything there has changed again. The walls and ceiling are living flesh, heads and sleeping faces pushing out from the stone surface like plant growths. Different skin tones span long reaches of the walls, making swirls of contrast here and there; a few stubby hands hang limp from the tissue-mass, evidently unneeded. It has happened faster than I imagined it could. I push my way to a sleeping face. It was once an andro woman, pale-skinned; now she is a webbed smear of white among many darker colors. “Talk to me,” I say. Her eyes open. “What?” “Talk to me!” “What do you want?” Her eyes start to sag shut again. I slap what was once her cheek. A ripple passes out from the slap as in the water in a pond. All over the street, eyes pop open and peer out. They are all interconnected. I scan down the street. Few bare stretches of stone exist any more; it is as if the whole street has become one being. I lean closer to the andro woman’s face. “Are you hooked to everyone else?” She answers without opening her eyes. “We are one. The wires and pipes are a part of us.” “Who are you?” “I am part of the comm system,” she says drowsily. “Once I was a sex toy. Now I live everywhere. In this street I care for the wires and lightpipes. It is good.” “It is good.” Voices chorus from up and down the street. Frustration burns in me. The andro genes, capable of fusing nerve tissue and photonic and electronic linkages, must have done this. I thrust my cart forward, reach up to a man’s sleeping face, seize it by the nose, and twist. “And what is your job?” At my abuse of him, the wall quivers and surges back and forth. “I am the air regulator. I control the oxygen level here in the City‘s depths. I have many faces. It is good.” “It is good,” comes the chorus again. I cover my ears, too late. The chorus rises in a welling of celebration. “I am the waste transport.” “I am the wall anchor for this street.” “We are the lamp regulators.” “I grow blood-food in my belly.” “We dream for the City.” The babble of voices rises, and then coalesces into a croon, a random song that harmonizes itself and soars through the City air. I sit stunned. They must be lying. Their freedom is gone; how can they be other than vegetables, their awarenesses dulled somehow? I rub my hand along the skin of something that was once a human being, but then I realize that it is little Furusi, the plates of stiffened colored paper still clinging to his flattened chest as he stands now against the wall, a part of it. I stare at him. He giggles.