Descending Road - BEYOND COLD by Dana W. Paxson

BEYOND COLD

0 NC, Day 1, Hour 18

The thousands of dead lay in a tightly-packed matrix of improvised racks, each rack a simple steel cot with its protective projections and supports removed, and a restraining web stretched over its burden. The chamber in which they lay was still pressurized, at about two degrees Centigrade. The cryo ichor preserved tissue perfectly from this temperature down to a few degrees above absolute zero; the warmth at two degrees Centigrade allowed easier movement and inspection of the bodies. There was no light.

Miriam‘s teeth chattered, and she clutched her arms as she read off the rows and columns and tiers to find Allan‘s position in the chamber. Up nearly to the axis, the numbers told her, and along it for eight tiers. This is where he would stay, forever.

She’d brought a self-powered warmer: a foot-square patch of wired blanket, but its charge was low. Its use would have to wait until it was absolutely necessary.

Allan‘s body lay in the eighth tier; she detached the webbing, and drew back the sheet from his head. In the lamplight, he looked just as he had looked the year before; pure-white, with an expression of total peace. Peace: she hadn’t remembered that part. She drew back the thin sheet until she could see his entire torso and the tops of his thighs. His nipples had fallen in, pinched; his penis had shrunk to less than a thumb in size; his testicles had withered to small prunes. She drew out one of the clear tubes from her coverall pocket and shook it. In the beam its contents danced like the dust she had seen around the dead face on the small craft. This would never work.

She applied the warmer to Allan‘s testicles, his thighs, his belly, and his chest; then she stripped off her coverall and webbed herself to the rack, covering him with her warmth. By the Ship, he was cold — the tears came to her eyes and she shuddered. Arching, she fumbled with her stiffening fingers and brought the tube to his testicle surface. Probably it wouldn’t be deep enough; the vas was what she wanted. She reached for where the scrotum met the sperm ducts, pushing folds of sluggish, dead skin aside. It was the best place she could think of, her mind racing over all the times he had warmed her in his arms.

That sentine-Susan hadn’t told her how to open the tube. Miriam bent the tube gently in her fingers, and it slowly separated at its middle into halves. She aimed her lamp and looked down.

Tiny motes of dust lay at the point where she had opened the tube. As she stared, they faded, disappearing into Allan‘s skin. Within two minutes, they were gone. She replaced the tube in her coverall pocket, shaking uncontrollably, and let the webbing press her to Allan once again.

She switched off the lamp, saving its charge, and tried to rest. When the cold grew too intolerable, she turned the warmer on again, but after two duty cycles, it stopped working. At intervals she switched the lamp on again and checked the time. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. Twenty-two.

Her eyes barely opened. Where was the lamp? Had she dropped it? It didn’t matter. She was where she wanted to be, and that was all.

She jolted awake. The tube, where had she put it? It was safe. But the Riders, and the woman, was it all done now? She raised her head a little; the muscles of her neck refused to let her turn to see Allan‘s face. Her labia rested against his withered scrotum, had it been an hour? Images of stunted dwarfs shuffled in her head. Could she have taken the wrong tube? What if the genes were damaged, what kind of thing would she bear? But that didn’t matter; she would sleep here. Her mind gyrated, and little by little she let herself sink into darkness again. The cold seemed less now, warmth filled her, and Allan lay sleeping under her as he so often had.

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USER SURVEY	PUZZLE ME	MAKE ELM MARK

HOVER Lucida Bright BARE	HOVER Lucida Bright FULL	HOVER Palatino Linotype BARE
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PAD Lucida Bright FULL	PAD Times New Roman BARE	PAD Times New Roman FULL


	BEYOND COLD 0 NC, Day 1, Hour 18 The thousands of dead lay in a tightly-packed matrix of improvised racks, each rack a simple steel cot with its protective projections and supports removed, and a restraining web stretched over its burden. The chamber in which they lay was still pressurized, at about two degrees Centigrade. The cryo ichor preserved tissue perfectly from this temperature down to a few degrees above absolute zero; the warmth at two degrees Centigrade allowed easier movement and inspection of the bodies. There was no light. Miriam‘s teeth chattered, and she clutched her arms as she read off the rows and columns and tiers to find Allan‘s position in the chamber. Up nearly to the axis, the numbers told her, and along it for eight tiers. This is where he would stay, forever. She’d brought a self-powered warmer: a foot-square patch of wired blanket, but its charge was low. Its use would have to wait until it was absolutely necessary. Allan‘s body lay in the eighth tier; she detached the webbing, and drew back the sheet from his head. In the lamplight, he looked just as he had looked the year before; pure-white, with an expression of total peace. Peace: she hadn’t remembered that part. She drew back the thin sheet until she could see his entire torso and the tops of his thighs. His nipples had fallen in, pinched; his penis had shrunk to less than a thumb in size; his testicles had withered to small prunes. She drew out one of the clear tubes from her coverall pocket and shook it. In the beam its contents danced like the dust she had seen around the dead face on the small craft. This would never work. She applied the warmer to Allan‘s testicles, his thighs, his belly, and his chest; then she stripped off her coverall and webbed herself to the rack, covering him with her warmth. By the Ship, he was cold — the tears came to her eyes and she shuddered. Arching, she fumbled with her stiffening fingers and brought the tube to his testicle surface. Probably it wouldn’t be deep enough; the vas was what she wanted. She reached for where the scrotum met the sperm ducts, pushing folds of sluggish, dead skin aside. It was the best place she could think of, her mind racing over all the times he had warmed her in his arms. That sentine-Susan hadn’t told her how to open the tube. Miriam bent the tube gently in her fingers, and it slowly separated at its middle into halves. She aimed her lamp and looked down. Tiny motes of dust lay at the point where she had opened the tube. As she stared, they faded, disappearing into Allan‘s skin. Within two minutes, they were gone. She replaced the tube in her coverall pocket, shaking uncontrollably, and let the webbing press her to Allan once again. She switched off the lamp, saving its charge, and tried to rest. When the cold grew too intolerable, she turned the warmer on again, but after two duty cycles, it stopped working. At intervals she switched the lamp on again and checked the time. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. Twenty-two. Her eyes barely opened. Where was the lamp? Had she dropped it? It didn’t matter. She was where she wanted to be, and that was all. She jolted awake. The tube, where had she put it? It was safe. But the Riders, and the woman, was it all done now? She raised her head a little; the muscles of her neck refused to let her turn to see Allan‘s face. Her labia rested against his withered scrotum, had it been an hour? Images of stunted dwarfs shuffled in her head. Could she have taken the wrong tube? What if the genes were damaged, what kind of thing would she bear? But that didn’t matter; she would sleep here. Her mind gyrated, and little by little she let herself sink into darkness again. The cold seemed less now, warmth filled her, and Allan lay sleeping under her as he so often had.