Descending Road - MA GETS A BURHOLM by Dana W. Paxson

MA GETS A BURHOLM

1560 4D

Armana‘s got my metal. He said last night he’d bring it to the arch footing by Caladrina‘s cafe, by midlight today, but I sat there and dozed long past that, until the City blues came by and fanned me off. The bruises hurt with every step I take. Actually I think Armana‘s found a guy he likes, and he’s spent my thirty thousand on him. Doubleshafter.

After all the pyro I’d sold him, it was good pyro, great braincooker, he knew it, and I’d told him how much I needed the metal. He looked at me with those soft eyes and said, “Tomas, I’d never let you down.” I don’t double like he does, but, just like one of his fool men and women, I agreed to let him pay later.

I walk down the stone-ceilinged street and rub my left thigh where the buzzbilly hit me, right on top of my pyro tap. The man in blue always knows where to hurt you. Good thing the tap was locked shut, or I’d have bled to death right out of the big leg vein.

Pyro caps in the mouth work fine, but pyro taps in the thigh are better. When I want to do the flaming death I hook a partner and we load our jectors and hump liqui-pyro through our taps, and we die, locked together. Sex on pyro defines everything else.

Pyro is just a trigger. First you have to catch the P-bug. It’s a retrovirus, and it grafts some cute exmitters into your nervous system. All the pyro does is kick off the exmitters when you’re doing sex, and they lock you up in a hot shroud of ecstasy, and you burn laughing in the flames, hotter and hotter, until you die. Then you wake up ready to start again.

Everybody down this deep in the City has had the P-bug, even my own mader. But she canned the pyro five years back, stayed clean. She’s a hard woman.

“Tomy!” Think of Ma, there she is, and not where I want to see her. She’s small and thin like me, and she’s in that skintight yellow suit she wears when she’s hunting men. I’d think that lean look would scare them, but she’s had more partners than I’ve sold caps of pyro. Better for her than the hard time she did with my vader.

She’s coming out of an art shop waving this package at me. “Tomy, look at this. It’s a real Burholm.” Another stat sculpture — she’s got them falling off her shelves.

Whatever a Burholm is. “Yeah, Ma.”

She peels off the wrapper. It’s a big jagger beetle, the length of my palm, on a chain, gilded in stat, quad mandibles sprouting from its oversize head, wings just barely showing under golden covers, spear proboscis tucked away. “Burholm froze it, at full size, it’s one of his best. I told them to add the chain so I could wear it as a necklace.” Stat is permanent life-suspension; if the thing could be thawed out it would bite her and run away.

“So you’ve got a new man, Ma?” That’s when she shops.

“Well, almost. I think so. He likes bugs.” She smiles so her ice-white teeth show in that little V-face she has, the same face she gave me. Then she squints at me like I’m a bug myself. “You don’t look so good. What’s the matter? Is that Nadienne causing you trouble again?”

“No, Ma. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

She grins, wraps up the beetle, and puts it in her big bag.

“No, look, Ma, it’s not Nadienne, it’s--“

She grins again. “You don’t have to tell me everything, Tomy. I know.”

“No, Ma, it was just a party,” I lie, because I don’t want her to sov that I’m still pumping braincooker.

She gets that smirk I hate. “You can’t resist the women, just like your vad. That’s trouble.” She turns her back, and fumbles out the beetle again. “Here. Put this on me. I can’t get the clasp to work.”

“Ma, it looks trashy.” I fasten the chain.

“Nothing that cost what this did is trashy. It’s art.”

Art, my butt-hair. If I could, I’d unfreeze the damn thing. I hate stat. But it’s a hot sess with everybody now, so I just watch all the small animals get frozen into gold and dangled around necks and tangled in hairdos. The last hot sess was the skinshift viro that let people look like patches of changing color. Best thing on skinshift was, only the heavy users got the cancer.

“Tomy, why do you keep staring up and down the street? Are you looking for someone?”

“No, Ma.” I won’t tell her, but I’m looking for Armana, the little creeper, to get my metal. If only I hadn’t let him off.

“Since you’re not interested in talking with your own mader, I’m going up to Caladrina‘s for dinner. With someone who cares about me.”

I’ve seen the kind who cares about her. “Thanks, Ma. I’d just as soon stay down here.”

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


	MA GETS A BURHOLM 1560 4D Armana‘s got my metal. He said last night he’d bring it to the arch footing by Caladrina‘s cafe, by midlight today, but I sat there and dozed long past that, until the City blues came by and fanned me off. The bruises hurt with every step I take. Actually I think Armana‘s found a guy he likes, and he’s spent my thirty thousand on him. Doubleshafter. After all the pyro I’d sold him, it was good pyro, great braincooker, he knew it, and I’d told him how much I needed the metal. He looked at me with those soft eyes and said, “Tomas, I’d never let you down.” I don’t double like he does, but, just like one of his fool men and women, I agreed to let him pay later. I walk down the stone-ceilinged street and rub my left thigh where the buzzbilly hit me, right on top of my pyro tap. The man in blue always knows where to hurt you. Good thing the tap was locked shut, or I’d have bled to death right out of the big leg vein. Pyro caps in the mouth work fine, but pyro taps in the thigh are better. When I want to do the flaming death I hook a partner and we load our jectors and hump liqui-pyro through our taps, and we die, locked together. Sex on pyro defines everything else. Pyro is just a trigger. First you have to catch the P-bug. It’s a retrovirus, and it grafts some cute exmitters into your nervous system. All the pyro does is kick off the exmitters when you’re doing sex, and they lock you up in a hot shroud of ecstasy, and you burn laughing in the flames, hotter and hotter, until you die. Then you wake up ready to start again. Everybody down this deep in the City has had the P-bug, even my own mader. But she canned the pyro five years back, stayed clean. She’s a hard woman. “Tomy!” Think of Ma, there she is, and not where I want to see her. She’s small and thin like me, and she’s in that skintight yellow suit she wears when she’s hunting men. I’d think that lean look would scare them, but she’s had more partners than I’ve sold caps of pyro. Better for her than the hard time she did with my vader. She’s coming out of an art shop waving this package at me. “Tomy, look at this. It’s a real Burholm.” Another stat sculpture — she’s got them falling off her shelves. Whatever a Burholm is. “Yeah, Ma.” She peels off the wrapper. It’s a big jagger beetle, the length of my palm, on a chain, gilded in stat, quad mandibles sprouting from its oversize head, wings just barely showing under golden covers, spear proboscis tucked away. “Burholm froze it, at full size, it’s one of his best. I told them to add the chain so I could wear it as a necklace.” Stat is permanent life-suspension; if the thing could be thawed out it would bite her and run away. “So you’ve got a new man, Ma?” That’s when she shops. “Well, almost. I think so. He likes bugs.” She smiles so her ice-white teeth show in that little V-face she has, the same face she gave me. Then she squints at me like I’m a bug myself. “You don’t look so good. What’s the matter? Is that Nadienne causing you trouble again?” “No, Ma. I didn’t get much sleep last night.” She grins, wraps up the beetle, and puts it in her big bag. “No, look, Ma, it’s not Nadienne, it’s--“ She grins again. “You don’t have to tell me everything, Tomy. I know.” “No, Ma, it was just a party,” I lie, because I don’t want her to sov that I’m still pumping braincooker. She gets that smirk I hate. “You can’t resist the women, just like your vad. That’s trouble.” She turns her back, and fumbles out the beetle again. “Here. Put this on me. I can’t get the clasp to work.” “Ma, it looks trashy.” I fasten the chain. “Nothing that cost what this did is trashy. It’s art.” Art, my butt-hair. If I could, I’d unfreeze the damn thing. I hate stat. But it’s a hot sess with everybody now, so I just watch all the small animals get frozen into gold and dangled around necks and tangled in hairdos. The last hot sess was the skinshift viro that let people look like patches of changing color. Best thing on skinshift was, only the heavy users got the cancer. “Tomy, why do you keep staring up and down the street? Are you looking for someone?” “No, Ma.” I won’t tell her, but I’m looking for Armana, the little creeper, to get my metal. If only I hadn’t let him off. “Since you’re not interested in talking with your own mader, I’m going up to Caladrina‘s for dinner. With someone who cares about me.” I’ve seen the kind who cares about her. “Thanks, Ma. I’d just as soon stay down here.”