Descending Road - WORDRIP by Dana W. Paxson

WORDRIP

1557 4D

The circle of chairs grows from a point in mid-screen to an oval table surrounded by seven people, one of whom speaks as music fades.

“I’m Tanzan Erazan, your host for this midlight cast of WordRip, our monthly special treat for you illuminati out in the rings who peak with the script thing. Tonight we’ve got our big guns out for a work that’s been turning up with the Archive ainons over and over: DESCENDING ROAD. It’s all over the place, just like an androvirus, and it’s rattling and banging in places where quiet is king. We all want to know: Who wrote this thing? What is it? Why should anybody care? And what could be programming the ainons to slip its hook into Archive visitors? PareVec Sert, why don’t you start things off?”

“Tanzan, I have no idea what this thing is supposed to be. Is it literature? Is it trading cards for the kids? Is it a joke? I think it’s a joke, and a huge waste of whatever dribbles of talent its so-called author might have had at one time.” Sert, an intense, hunkered man, grabs a brewtank from the table and tilts it back.

Erazan points at another guest. “Caricin Khodi? Any reaction to Sert’s calling it a squirt?”

The tall, bony man shakes his head. “Before I go off with my own take on this – rather strange – maybe-event, I’d like to hear from the others.”

“Aah.” Erazan waves in dismissal. “Okay. One big No, and one big Nothing. Come on, Antonia, what do you have up that sleeve besides a stickbat?”

“It’s a shame, really.” A wiry woman in a sleek slipsuit steepled her fingers. “I think I know who wrote this, and I also think he’s destroyed any chance of making it work. I saw a draft of it once in the Archives, nailed to a doorpost as a datasheet. It wasn’t working then, and it’s working even less well now.”

The whole circle bends in over the table, voices gabbling. Erazan raises a hand. “You have a name?” Silence.

“Well, maybe I do.”

“Okay. Hold that name while we report the superb benefits of RhoCorp‘s LookThru, making news all over the City. I’ve got thousands of faces right here to tell everyone how this amazing psychoactive has opened doors in their lives.”

The sensi unfurls a mosaic of smiling faces, among them those of some of the circle of critics, all of them beholding a gleaming sunrise over mountaintops.

Erazan continues, “Now, with LookThru, a visit to the Archives and the Tarnus history feeds (specially supplied by RhoCorp) puts you in the scene, wherever it takes you. See the sun rise and set over a beautiful land – on the surface. Smell the flowers you never see here in the City‘s mazes. Watch as the winds wave the grasses, and the stars come out at night, and feel the caress of cool, dry air.”

Sky Scanner’s alto voice picks up. “The stars! When did you last see them? Don’t you want to see them without doing the screw and fighting the lifts and the crowds up top? Drop a hook to RhoCorp, and we’ll send you out there where you’ve never been.”

Erazan follows smoothly, “We’ll get back to Antonia shortly. And now, Harley Saigh, you’re up. Do you agree with PareVec and Antonia? Or are you going to sit up on that wire with Caricin?”

Saigh’s raspy soprano kicks in. “Tanzan, I think they’ve all missed the point. I got into Descending Road a while ago, and I can tell you it isn’t what you think. It’s changing all the time. And it’s a hook.”

PareVec hammers the table, making his brewtank jump. “Harley, that’s just like you to jump in and get lost.” She glares at him, and he keeps going. “It seems to me that this thing has no beginning, no middle, and no end, just a lot of debris, like the bottom of Shaft Arbonel. A hook, my foot! Let that – thing – hook you, and you’ll never surface.”

Saigh aims a finger at him, but Erazan stops them both. “Wait. Let’s describe for our viewers what Descending Road is, because there might be one or two who haven’t seen it. Any of you care to try?” He grinned. “Oh, I see Draconos Mellyn getting ready.”

A smiling, genial man raises his hand. “I think I can sketch it for them.” He turned to face the viewers. “You just have to let go of every idea you had about stories. Forget plot lines and denouements and endings. Whoever wrote this, or is writing it, seems to be pulling scenes from everywhere and stitching them into a threaded mosaic, the way a roving camera does in the mythtales. Except that here the camera is on us. It’s on the viewers, too.”

Sky Scanner breaks in, her voice taking on a stentorian air. “If this is a camera, it’s on a lot of ugly stuff. Bad. Dark. I waded through as much of it as I could stand, and then I turned my back. There are some kinds of literature I will not indulge, and this is an example. The ugliness is gratuitous. And worse yet, the writing is bad. It mystifies me that anyone would get a hook here. Unless, of course, perversion is their hook.”

Erazan nods. “Let’s get back to Mellyn. Draconos, you said ‘is writing it’. What did you mean? Is this a work in progress?”

“A work in regress,” Scanner mutters. PareVec chuckles.

Draconos nods to Erazan. “It’s eerie. I’m in the midst of reading it, and I get this feeling that the author is writing through my eyes, as if I’m inside it, just the way we’re inside the City.”

“Yes!” Saigh points at Mellyn. “There was one time, at Caladrina‘s, when I was reading through it–“

“You had a copy on datasheet?” Erazan interrupts.

“Of course. There are thousands of copies floating around! Anyway, at Caladrina‘s I got to that place in it where Lejina was writing in the salt at one of Caladrina‘s back tables, and I got this strange feeling. I turned around and there was a young woman and a man hunched close, nearby, and I went woozy. When I looked again they weren’t there.”

Erazan shakes his head, smiles down at the table edge. “Ookay. Let’s get back now to Caricin Khodi, our bird on the wire. Any comments now, Caricin?”

Khodi says, “I’m more in line with Harley than the others, actually. There was this body in the street near one of the amphitheaters, and I heard a couple of cleaners singing…"

Erazan, looking queasy, interrupts. “Thanks, Caricin. We’ll open that up more a bit later on, after we collect the votes, but I think everyone is waiting for Antonia Stram to tell us who she thinks the author is.”

Stram says, “The Archives are the author. And the Archives are actually the voices of a man. I don’t know where he is, and I don’t actually know his given name, but he is still writing Descending Road. He watches the sensi, he collects scenes and stories, and he weaves them into this… thing. And I think he ‘s written himself into his work.”

A moment of silence. Then Stram adds, “What worries me is what might happen when he deletes a scene. Or even when he just stops writing a scene.”

Caricin Khodi laughs, and Draconos Mellyn starts, and soon the whole circle jounces with merriment. Music rises. The sensicam draws back to show only a shrinking oval of light.

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


	WORDRIP 1557 4D The circle of chairs grows from a point in mid-screen to an oval table surrounded by seven people, one of whom speaks as music fades. “I’m Tanzan Erazan, your host for this midlight cast of WordRip, our monthly special treat for you illuminati out in the rings who peak with the script thing. Tonight we’ve got our big guns out for a work that’s been turning up with the Archive ainons over and over: DESCENDING ROAD. It’s all over the place, just like an androvirus, and it’s rattling and banging in places where quiet is king. We all want to know: Who wrote this thing? What is it? Why should anybody care? And what could be programming the ainons to slip its hook into Archive visitors? PareVec Sert, why don’t you start things off?” “Tanzan, I have no idea what this thing is supposed to be. Is it literature? Is it trading cards for the kids? Is it a joke? I think it’s a joke, and a huge waste of whatever dribbles of talent its so-called author might have had at one time.” Sert, an intense, hunkered man, grabs a brewtank from the table and tilts it back. Erazan points at another guest. “Caricin Khodi? Any reaction to Sert’s calling it a squirt?” The tall, bony man shakes his head. “Before I go off with my own take on this – rather strange – maybe-event, I’d like to hear from the others.” “Aah.” Erazan waves in dismissal. “Okay. One big No, and one big Nothing. Come on, Antonia, what do you have up that sleeve besides a stickbat?” “It’s a shame, really.” A wiry woman in a sleek slipsuit steepled her fingers. “I think I know who wrote this, and I also think he’s destroyed any chance of making it work. I saw a draft of it once in the Archives, nailed to a doorpost as a datasheet. It wasn’t working then, and it’s working even less well now.” The whole circle bends in over the table, voices gabbling. Erazan raises a hand. “You have a name?” Silence. “Well, maybe I do.” “Okay. Hold that name while we report the superb benefits of RhoCorp‘s LookThru, making news all over the City. I’ve got thousands of faces right here to tell everyone how this amazing psychoactive has opened doors in their lives.” The sensi unfurls a mosaic of smiling faces, among them those of some of the circle of critics, all of them beholding a gleaming sunrise over mountaintops. Erazan continues, “Now, with LookThru, a visit to the Archives and the Tarnus history feeds (specially supplied by RhoCorp) puts you in the scene, wherever it takes you. See the sun rise and set over a beautiful land – on the surface. Smell the flowers you never see here in the City‘s mazes. Watch as the winds wave the grasses, and the stars come out at night, and feel the caress of cool, dry air.” Sky Scanner’s alto voice picks up. “The stars! When did you last see them? Don’t you want to see them without doing the screw and fighting the lifts and the crowds up top? Drop a hook to RhoCorp, and we’ll send you out there where you’ve never been.” Erazan follows smoothly, “We’ll get back to Antonia shortly. And now, Harley Saigh, you’re up. Do you agree with PareVec and Antonia? Or are you going to sit up on that wire with Caricin?” Saigh’s raspy soprano kicks in. “Tanzan, I think they’ve all missed the point. I got into Descending Road a while ago, and I can tell you it isn’t what you think. It’s changing all the time. And it’s a hook.” PareVec hammers the table, making his brewtank jump. “Harley, that’s just like you to jump in and get lost.” She glares at him, and he keeps going. “It seems to me that this thing has no beginning, no middle, and no end, just a lot of debris, like the bottom of Shaft Arbonel. A hook, my foot! Let that – thing – hook you, and you’ll never surface.” Saigh aims a finger at him, but Erazan stops them both. “Wait. Let’s describe for our viewers what Descending Road is, because there might be one or two who haven’t seen it. Any of you care to try?” He grinned. “Oh, I see Draconos Mellyn getting ready.” A smiling, genial man raises his hand. “I think I can sketch it for them.” He turned to face the viewers. “You just have to let go of every idea you had about stories. Forget plot lines and denouements and endings. Whoever wrote this, or is writing it, seems to be pulling scenes from everywhere and stitching them into a threaded mosaic, the way a roving camera does in the mythtales. Except that here the camera is on us. It’s on the viewers, too.” Sky Scanner breaks in, her voice taking on a stentorian air. “If this is a camera, it’s on a lot of ugly stuff. Bad. Dark. I waded through as much of it as I could stand, and then I turned my back. There are some kinds of literature I will not indulge, and this is an example. The ugliness is gratuitous. And worse yet, the writing is bad. It mystifies me that anyone would get a hook here. Unless, of course, perversion is their hook.” Erazan nods. “Let’s get back to Mellyn. Draconos, you said ‘is writing it’. What did you mean? Is this a work in progress?” “A work in regress,” Scanner mutters. PareVec chuckles. Draconos nods to Erazan. “It’s eerie. I’m in the midst of reading it, and I get this feeling that the author is writing through my eyes, as if I’m inside it, just the way we’re inside the City.” “Yes!” Saigh points at Mellyn. “There was one time, at Caladrina‘s, when I was reading through it–“ “You had a copy on datasheet?” Erazan interrupts. “Of course. There are thousands of copies floating around! Anyway, at Caladrina‘s I got to that place in it where Lejina was writing in the salt at one of Caladrina‘s back tables, and I got this strange feeling. I turned around and there was a young woman and a man hunched close, nearby, and I went woozy. When I looked again they weren’t there.” Erazan shakes his head, smiles down at the table edge. “Ookay. Let’s get back now to Caricin Khodi, our bird on the wire. Any comments now, Caricin?” Khodi says, “I’m more in line with Harley than the others, actually. There was this body in the street near one of the amphitheaters, and I heard a couple of cleaners singing…" Erazan, looking queasy, interrupts. “Thanks, Caricin. We’ll open that up more a bit later on, after we collect the votes, but I think everyone is waiting for Antonia Stram to tell us who she thinks the author is.” Stram says, “The Archives are the author. And the Archives are actually the voices of a man. I don’t know where he is, and I don’t actually know his given name, but he is still writing Descending Road. He watches the sensi, he collects scenes and stories, and he weaves them into this… thing. And I think he ‘s written himself into his work.” A moment of silence. Then Stram adds, “What worries me is what might happen when he deletes a scene. Or even when he just stops writing a scene.” Caricin Khodi laughs, and Draconos Mellyn starts, and soon the whole circle jounces with merriment. Music rises. The sensicam draws back to show only a shrinking oval of light.