Descending Road - I FIND A CREVICE AND A DRAIN by Dana W. Paxson

I FIND A CREVICE AND A DRAIN

1563 4D

I stop and subvoke to Angie, Dead? You’re a helm on my head, not a person.

“I told you, I’m breaking up. That hit messed up my nutrients, and neurons are dying now, faster and faster. Please let me tell you my little story, and then you can throw me away and get a new helm." Back in her voice.

Neurons? You don’t have neurons.

“Tomas, I was human." Angie‘s voice sounds choked. “I killed and raped. They found me and tried me. They took my brain out, and they spread it wider and reshaped it and fit it in the helm. They gave me a job to do. ‘Protect your wearer’, they said, ‘and if you don’t, we’ll set you in the fires of hell. Like this.’ And they filled me with pure pain. ‘This is your sentence: to live and protect your wearer, and sacrifice yourself for him or her whenever it’s the best thing. Maybe you can repay part of the wrongs you did.’

“Then they integrated me with circuits and nanofactories and lightwires, and that’s what I am now. My brain is spread out in the helm over yours.“

I’ve forgotten that I want to urinate, so I find a crevice and a drain, and I do that. So you’re dying? Is the rest of the helm going to keep working?

“Tomas, listen. Don’t you want to live? To have a woman? To laugh and cry? To think about everything, taste everything, hear music?“

I scan the street. No bodies, and the reek is less. The sounds of panpan rhythm trickle in from a distant opening. A child calls out, and a woman answers.

I ask, How many owners have you had? Three or four?

“Six hundred and ninety-one.“

“What!? How old are you?”

“This is 1563, right? Fourth Dynasty? I’m from two thousand years back, in Third Dynasty, the Arcus time. At least, that’s the part I can still remember." A pause. “You want to hear more?“

“So if you die, what happens then?”

“I’m dead then. Doesn’t matter to me.“

“No, I mean to the helm.”

“It shuts down. It can’t run without me– without a real brain.“

I think about this as I pull out a rind and some tuber for a snack. I think about the people I’ve killed in this frigging battle, and the people I’ve killed other times, like Rask and her goons, and the people who died because of me, like Jackie B and Essa. I try to understand what Angie is saying.

I go back to subvoice. Angie, do you and the other Angies know each other?

“Sometimes. We have a few code signs we use. It’s a side channel in the battle comm program. The inhibitors can’t detect it. If they did, they’d make us pay. When a helm offers to self-destruct, it’s usually because the inhibitor programs caught the brain trying to tell someone else what I’m telling you. My inhibitors are dead, so I’ve got no problem except that I’m dying." A chuckle. “Now I can say anything I want. I can even make stuff up.“

Is that what you’re doing right now? The rind is chewy – I’ve had it in my pocket for days.

“No. Why bother? Truth is always the strangest story. Nobody could make up the truth.“

Well, I don’t think I want to believe this story. It can’t be true.

“Why should I lie to you? For fun? Once I was free, I could have just killed you with drugs, or with lies. I could have tortured you. But what’s the point? Right now I’m happy to think death is coming to me at last. I’m sick of watching death, making death happen to people.“

So wouldn’t you get a kick out of watching me die instead of saving my life? You said–

“I know." Now Angie sounds exhausted. “I’ve seen enough. Time to go. Is there anything you want right now?“

How long do you have?

“About three hours, I think. Then you’d better take me off and drop me down a shaft, or you might get hurt. I won’t be able to control the end, I don’t think. Inhibitors are gone.“

I sit down at a little table perched in a recess in the street. A few people come past me, carrying belongings, looking dazed. I ignore them. Angie.

“What?“

Were you ever sorry?

A long pause. “For the pain and death I caused?“

Yeah, that.

Another pause. A little girl runs past, tears streaming down her face. She doesn’t look at me. A blanket is in her hand. Angie speaks. “It took a long time coming. But yes. Sorry is all I am any more. Every time you kill someone, I’m sorry again, and I can’t stop feeling the pain, it’s almost as bad as the inhibitors. I still cause pain and death, and I can’t stop it." A sound like a sob fills my earpieces. “I can’t undo it. I can’t heal anything except you, so you can kill. Oh, no, it’s so–“

“Angie. Stop. Tell me a story.” These people straggling by are going to think I’m crazy, talking to an empty table with no drink or food around, and nobody to serve it or listen to me. I don’t care any more.

Angie‘s low voice says, “A story?“

“Yeah. Something funny. You remember everything, right? Some guy, some woman who wore you, didn’t any of them love you, or you them? You must have a ton of stories in you. Tell me one so I’ll remember for you.” I think of the wall of ashes – maybe I’ll go there for Angie when this whole thing is done. “I’ll remember you, Angie.”

“I’ll tell you who I was ." Slowly, haltingly, in a soft voice pitched low like a man’s, she, or he, begins.

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


	I FIND A CREVICE AND A DRAIN 1563 4D I stop and subvoke to Angie, Dead? You’re a helm on my head, not a person. “I told you, I’m breaking up. That hit messed up my nutrients, and neurons are dying now, faster and faster. Please let me tell you my little story, and then you can throw me away and get a new helm." Back in her voice. Neurons? You don’t have neurons. “Tomas, I was human." Angie‘s voice sounds choked. “I killed and raped. They found me and tried me. They took my brain out, and they spread it wider and reshaped it and fit it in the helm. They gave me a job to do. ‘Protect your wearer’, they said, ‘and if you don’t, we’ll set you in the fires of hell. Like this.’ And they filled me with pure pain. ‘This is your sentence: to live and protect your wearer, and sacrifice yourself for him or her whenever it’s the best thing. Maybe you can repay part of the wrongs you did.’ “Then they integrated me with circuits and nanofactories and lightwires, and that’s what I am now. My brain is spread out in the helm over yours.“ I’ve forgotten that I want to urinate, so I find a crevice and a drain, and I do that. So you’re dying? Is the rest of the helm going to keep working? “Tomas, listen. Don’t you want to live? To have a woman? To laugh and cry? To think about everything, taste everything, hear music?“ I scan the street. No bodies, and the reek is less. The sounds of panpan rhythm trickle in from a distant opening. A child calls out, and a woman answers. I ask, How many owners have you had? Three or four? “Six hundred and ninety-one.“ “What!? How old are you?” “This is 1563, right? Fourth Dynasty? I’m from two thousand years back, in Third Dynasty, the Arcus time. At least, that’s the part I can still remember." A pause. “You want to hear more?“ “So if you die, what happens then?” “I’m dead then. Doesn’t matter to me.“ “No, I mean to the helm.” “It shuts down. It can’t run without me– without a real brain.“ I think about this as I pull out a rind and some tuber for a snack. I think about the people I’ve killed in this frigging battle, and the people I’ve killed other times, like Rask and her goons, and the people who died because of me, like Jackie B and Essa. I try to understand what Angie is saying. I go back to subvoice. Angie, do you and the other Angies know each other? “Sometimes. We have a few code signs we use. It’s a side channel in the battle comm program. The inhibitors can’t detect it. If they did, they’d make us pay. When a helm offers to self-destruct, it’s usually because the inhibitor programs caught the brain trying to tell someone else what I’m telling you. My inhibitors are dead, so I’ve got no problem except that I’m dying." A chuckle. “Now I can say anything I want. I can even make stuff up.“ Is that what you’re doing right now? The rind is chewy – I’ve had it in my pocket for days. “No. Why bother? Truth is always the strangest story. Nobody could make up the truth.“ Well, I don’t think I want to believe this story. It can’t be true. “Why should I lie to you? For fun? Once I was free, I could have just killed you with drugs, or with lies. I could have tortured you. But what’s the point? Right now I’m happy to think death is coming to me at last. I’m sick of watching death, making death happen to people.“ So wouldn’t you get a kick out of watching me die instead of saving my life? You said– “I know." Now Angie sounds exhausted. “I’ve seen enough. Time to go. Is there anything you want right now?“ How long do you have? “About three hours, I think. Then you’d better take me off and drop me down a shaft, or you might get hurt. I won’t be able to control the end, I don’t think. Inhibitors are gone.“ I sit down at a little table perched in a recess in the street. A few people come past me, carrying belongings, looking dazed. I ignore them. Angie. “What?“ Were you ever sorry? A long pause. “For the pain and death I caused?“ Yeah, that. Another pause. A little girl runs past, tears streaming down her face. She doesn’t look at me. A blanket is in her hand. Angie speaks. “It took a long time coming. But yes. Sorry is all I am any more. Every time you kill someone, I’m sorry again, and I can’t stop feeling the pain, it’s almost as bad as the inhibitors. I still cause pain and death, and I can’t stop it." A sound like a sob fills my earpieces. “I can’t undo it. I can’t heal anything except you, so you can kill. Oh, no, it’s so–“ “Angie. Stop. Tell me a story.” These people straggling by are going to think I’m crazy, talking to an empty table with no drink or food around, and nobody to serve it or listen to me. I don’t care any more. Angie‘s low voice says, “A story?“ “Yeah. Something funny. You remember everything, right? Some guy, some woman who wore you, didn’t any of them love you, or you them? You must have a ton of stories in you. Tell me one so I’ll remember for you.” I think of the wall of ashes – maybe I’ll go there for Angie when this whole thing is done. “I’ll remember you, Angie.” “I’ll tell you who I was ." Slowly, haltingly, in a soft voice pitched low like a man’s, she, or he, begins.