Descending Road - MIYAKO ON by Dana W. Paxson

MIYAKO ON

2404 CE

Her mother’s slap just kept happening across her face, day after day, year after year, and Miyako felt it every time she wanted to cry and scream out of fear, just like now when she had to get through the little hatch into her ship’s only seat. She knew she’d be fine in the seat, because everything would snap tightly into its place and all the buttons and icons did exactly what she wanted them to do, and the ship grew into an extension of herself and her small body. But the hatch was a mouth that could bite her in half, every time, the same shape as her mother’s mouth when she shouted at Miyako for wetting her bed or writing smiling faces on the wall with her favorite orange red crayon.

Her faces used to talk to her and tell her that she was good, and she needed that, because her mother always told her how bad she was, and put her in the lower cupboard in the white kitchen. It smelled like soap and fat, and it was dark, and she could hear the water start and stop from the sink, and the voices from the Window making Sinese gabble. And Miyako would make the cupboard into her little space ship and travel through her head with all the sounds and smells, until her mother dragged her out again.

Now the ship was real, and Miyako was sixteen, and she wanted to get in it for the long trip she was going to take, the one Dr. Hackshaw had told her about. He had come to say goodbye, and he had given her a tiny flower in a glass ball, and its colors changed when she squeezed the ball, from pale red to dark purple and brown and back again. She stored the ball in its little padded case, and stuffed the case in her personal locker.

She took a deep breath, floating in the L4 Bronson station a nearly half a million kilometers from Earth, and dived into her ship through her mother’s scream. Her seat held her close, fitting firm pads to every part of her back and butt and legs and neck; she started connecting cables and tubes into herself, while the ship hummed and whooshed and made voices, Sinese voices, in the radio.

First the brown waste tubes, clicking and locking into their fittings on her body, feeding the recyclers and the microfarms. Next, the monitors and interfaces, fluids in transparent colored tubing, electrical in solid colored cabling, all coded by colors and patterns just the way she’d asked, snapping, turning and sealing into place: blood analysis, the clear tube, into the port in her left arm; spinal fluid monitoring, the pale blue tube, into a takeout line at her right side; an orange dehydration watch line, a patch of nanosensors wired at her breastbone; sensory links for ears, skin; microphone link for voice, although she didn’t use it much; emergency transfusion tubing, in many colors; spectral-shimmering vision injection links, three cables coming to sockets in her temples; meal input lines, in red, white and purple.

She had names for them. Yoshi was the spinal fluid monitor line, Mando, Mido and Modo the vision links; she named them all as she connected them, clamped down the restraining pads over her legs, arms and body, placed her fingers on their resting pads, and keyed “Ready” with her right index fingertip. She took three deep breaths while the Sinese voices chattered and sang, and bit down on her breather. The suspension fluid poured in around her, embracing her in warmth and softness; she floated. She was home.

Dr. Hackshaw‘s voice came in to her. “Miyako-chan, we’re ready here too. Do you want to go now?”

Ready, she keyed again. ReadyReadyReady. The Oort Cloud was a long way off.

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


	MIYAKO ON 2404 CE Her mother’s slap just kept happening across her face, day after day, year after year, and Miyako felt it every time she wanted to cry and scream out of fear, just like now when she had to get through the little hatch into her ship’s only seat. She knew she’d be fine in the seat, because everything would snap tightly into its place and all the buttons and icons did exactly what she wanted them to do, and the ship grew into an extension of herself and her small body. But the hatch was a mouth that could bite her in half, every time, the same shape as her mother’s mouth when she shouted at Miyako for wetting her bed or writing smiling faces on the wall with her favorite orange red crayon. Her faces used to talk to her and tell her that she was good, and she needed that, because her mother always told her how bad she was, and put her in the lower cupboard in the white kitchen. It smelled like soap and fat, and it was dark, and she could hear the water start and stop from the sink, and the voices from the Window making Sinese gabble. And Miyako would make the cupboard into her little space ship and travel through her head with all the sounds and smells, until her mother dragged her out again. Now the ship was real, and Miyako was sixteen, and she wanted to get in it for the long trip she was going to take, the one Dr. Hackshaw had told her about. He had come to say goodbye, and he had given her a tiny flower in a glass ball, and its colors changed when she squeezed the ball, from pale red to dark purple and brown and back again. She stored the ball in its little padded case, and stuffed the case in her personal locker. She took a deep breath, floating in the L4 Bronson station a nearly half a million kilometers from Earth, and dived into her ship through her mother’s scream. Her seat held her close, fitting firm pads to every part of her back and butt and legs and neck; she started connecting cables and tubes into herself, while the ship hummed and whooshed and made voices, Sinese voices, in the radio. First the brown waste tubes, clicking and locking into their fittings on her body, feeding the recyclers and the microfarms. Next, the monitors and interfaces, fluids in transparent colored tubing, electrical in solid colored cabling, all coded by colors and patterns just the way she’d asked, snapping, turning and sealing into place: blood analysis, the clear tube, into the port in her left arm; spinal fluid monitoring, the pale blue tube, into a takeout line at her right side; an orange dehydration watch line, a patch of nanosensors wired at her breastbone; sensory links for ears, skin; microphone link for voice, although she didn’t use it much; emergency transfusion tubing, in many colors; spectral-shimmering vision injection links, three cables coming to sockets in her temples; meal input lines, in red, white and purple. She had names for them. Yoshi was the spinal fluid monitor line, Mando, Mido and Modo the vision links; she named them all as she connected them, clamped down the restraining pads over her legs, arms and body, placed her fingers on their resting pads, and keyed “Ready” with her right index fingertip. She took three deep breaths while the Sinese voices chattered and sang, and bit down on her breather. The suspension fluid poured in around her, embracing her in warmth and softness; she floated. She was home. Dr. Hackshaw‘s voice came in to her. “Miyako-chan, we’re ready here too. Do you want to go now?” Ready, she keyed again. ReadyReadyReady. The Oort Cloud was a long way off.