Descending Road - A PATCH OF FLESH SHIFTS by Dana W. Paxson

A PATCH OF FLESH SHIFTS

Mama Jones comes to me, and kneels down so that our faces are on the same level. She turns to Furusi and kisses him, and caresses his face and forehead. He laughs a soft, musical carol of childish glee, and turns his face from side to side a little, as far as he can before his wall-connected skin restricts his movement. “Come, Mama,” he says to her.

At this moment I wonder if I looked this way when I was in my wall-prison. No, I decide, I never smiled the way he is doing.

I don’t understand. How can they abandon their free movements, their lives, their independence? Their humanity? For this, to become City plumbing for human filth? I fought so long to attain what they had, and they gave it up to me and became what I had been.

“They are all fools,” I say to Mama Jones. “Now they are prisoners in the walls, and they can never be free.”

“That is not what they tell me. They play in the space in their heads. They all share in it.”

The andro space! How did they get it, unless… of course. Some of those who caught my plague must have been andros. With the shared circulatory system and my immunoharmonizers, the viruses must have passed along the reconstructive information necessary for the andro brain changes. So now they all have andro genes, and andro organs. That means they travel in the inner space that andros share.

Now these bodies are only their roots, in a space much greater, as vast as the sky far outside this capsuled city in stone. In that inner universe they grow wings and fly, soar beyond the air itself into starlit blackness, morph themselves at the touch of a thought, savor the scents and tastes and feel of fruits drooping from trees of imagination.

All this was once the andro reward for total slavery. Now it is free.

Mama Jones looks thoughtful. “They tell me it is beautiful. I didn’t believe them for a long time, but they have stayed happy. They are building new streets and homes and places in the City. Come with me.”

Before I begin my protests she trundles me off to an aswal, one of the thousands of street-crossing domes in the City, and stops under the center of the dome. She points upward.

Long millennia ago, and up to a few short months ago, this place had been a confluence of stores and shops, festooned with climbing ivies and filled with birdsong. Store signs and logos flashed and sang everywhere, and the smell of cooking morsels filled the flower-tinged air.

Long, leafy vines hang from the dome in patterns irregular and beautiful, their many colors shifting and shimmering with the light from the lamps, skins pale green, brown, pink, deep umber, rich violet, orange. Along each vine partway down its length grows a head. Some heads are round, others long and flat and narrow, like so many exotic fruit. The leaves are former hands and feet and ears, and even neatly-gathered plaits of hair.

These vines are people. They speak in drowsy murmurs to each other, sometimes shifting and swinging a little in the mild air-currents of the dome.

At the center of the dome a patch of flesh shifts, and a cracking sound reveals a crevice being opened above us. Some wall-dweller is opening a new space in the City‘s infinite stone. Voices carol, chant, and then rock fragments fall to the floor of the crossing. Fragrances fill the air; I recognize a thousand florals, rose and lilac and iris and orchid, and some gentle intoxicants and flavorings.

The shelves and aisles of every shop teem with growth. A new commerce is here, done in vascular fluids and hormones, the fresh-minted currency of a single-bodied City.

The girl Mama Jones is smiling, and her ruby eyes are soft and open. “You have given us a gift. My children have found a home now. Please come with us and join the City. It will be good.”

The walls nearby croon echoes, “It will be good.”

I back away on my wheeled cart. Words refuse to come. This girl looks nothing like Alayre, not now; she is instead alien to me, and awesome. I do not understand. All this beauty is utterly other, and my words fail to defend me against it.

“You will be cared for,” she says. “There is love for all of us.”

Love! The word itself stabs me. I have to return to my lab, to develop some new entertainments for myself, to wield some new weapon against the people who--

The people who… my thoughts sag, my fury dissipates in a fog of frustration. Those people are long gone. “Go,” I say to her. “Take your children and join the City.”

“Come with us,” they say.

“No,” I say. “I am Jono. I have work to do.”

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


	A PATCH OF FLESH SHIFTS 6303 Arcus Mama Jones comes to me, and kneels down so that our faces are on the same level. She turns to Furusi and kisses him, and caresses his face and forehead. He laughs a soft, musical carol of childish glee, and turns his face from side to side a little, as far as he can before his wall-connected skin restricts his movement. “Come, Mama,” he says to her. At this moment I wonder if I looked this way when I was in my wall-prison. No, I decide, I never smiled the way he is doing. I don’t understand. How can they abandon their free movements, their lives, their independence? Their humanity? For this, to become City plumbing for human filth? I fought so long to attain what they had, and they gave it up to me and became what I had been. “They are all fools,” I say to Mama Jones. “Now they are prisoners in the walls, and they can never be free.” “That is not what they tell me. They play in the space in their heads. They all share in it.” The andro space! How did they get it, unless… of course. Some of those who caught my plague must have been andros. With the shared circulatory system and my immunoharmonizers, the viruses must have passed along the reconstructive information necessary for the andro brain changes. So now they all have andro genes, and andro organs. That means they travel in the inner space that andros share. Now these bodies are only their roots, in a space much greater, as vast as the sky far outside this capsuled city in stone. In that inner universe they grow wings and fly, soar beyond the air itself into starlit blackness, morph themselves at the touch of a thought, savor the scents and tastes and feel of fruits drooping from trees of imagination. All this was once the andro reward for total slavery. Now it is free. Mama Jones looks thoughtful. “They tell me it is beautiful. I didn’t believe them for a long time, but they have stayed happy. They are building new streets and homes and places in the City. Come with me.” Before I begin my protests she trundles me off to an aswal, one of the thousands of street-crossing domes in the City, and stops under the center of the dome. She points upward. Long millennia ago, and up to a few short months ago, this place had been a confluence of stores and shops, festooned with climbing ivies and filled with birdsong. Store signs and logos flashed and sang everywhere, and the smell of cooking morsels filled the flower-tinged air. Long, leafy vines hang from the dome in patterns irregular and beautiful, their many colors shifting and shimmering with the light from the lamps, skins pale green, brown, pink, deep umber, rich violet, orange. Along each vine partway down its length grows a head. Some heads are round, others long and flat and narrow, like so many exotic fruit. The leaves are former hands and feet and ears, and even neatly-gathered plaits of hair. These vines are people. They speak in drowsy murmurs to each other, sometimes shifting and swinging a little in the mild air-currents of the dome. At the center of the dome a patch of flesh shifts, and a cracking sound reveals a crevice being opened above us. Some wall-dweller is opening a new space in the City‘s infinite stone. Voices carol, chant, and then rock fragments fall to the floor of the crossing. Fragrances fill the air; I recognize a thousand florals, rose and lilac and iris and orchid, and some gentle intoxicants and flavorings. The shelves and aisles of every shop teem with growth. A new commerce is here, done in vascular fluids and hormones, the fresh-minted currency of a single-bodied City. The girl Mama Jones is smiling, and her ruby eyes are soft and open. “You have given us a gift. My children have found a home now. Please come with us and join the City. It will be good.” The walls nearby croon echoes, “It will be good.” I back away on my wheeled cart. Words refuse to come. This girl looks nothing like Alayre, not now; she is instead alien to me, and awesome. I do not understand. All this beauty is utterly other, and my words fail to defend me against it. “You will be cared for,” she says. “There is love for all of us.” Love! The word itself stabs me. I have to return to my lab, to develop some new entertainments for myself, to wield some new weapon against the people who-- The people who… my thoughts sag, my fury dissipates in a fog of frustration. Those people are long gone. “Go,” I say to her. “Take your children and join the City.” “Come with us,” they say. “No,” I say. “I am Jono. I have work to do.”