Contralto (Contrary)
Has it really been that long? Ah. My voice, she went a-wand'ring and returns in slips and circles, and I founder behind her, breathing breathing breathing. C above middle C, now, dear, top of the range, and don't let go.
The sound skittered up and through his backbone, soft and sticky with grit, like a drift of iron shavings, magnetic dust, ionic and metallic on his tongue. He tried to laugh back, rooted to the spot, and got only air, an open gasp.
"You know I can't," the thought stuttered there, stalled, became something else entirely, "I can't help you if you won't let me see."
Repair. That was what he'd passed this way for, why he'd twisted down this hallway--one that he was beginning to realize he'd never seen before, one that wasn't in the schematic. That wasn't unusual; she grew slowly but at a constant they couldn't quite calculate, in sudden wet starts, sprouting old new cable from ancient fiber and devoured steel. Was it like eating, he wondered; was it like knowing you were dead?
It was never cold anymore. She'd set the temperature too high and kept it there, ever since they'd come in from the snow and he'd first discovered that feeling. Knowing he was being watched.
She was laughing, and it hurt, but it was worse when she stopped. When the floor began to soften and sag. Wasn't a floor at all, same as the walls, all wire, crawling, seething. He dropped to a crouch, strained to keep his footing, to keep from being caught--no telling how far he had to fall, in the wet green dark.
His laser was gone. Taken or eaten. Did she want his boots, too?
He stooped and bled on her, clutching his fingers tight in his sleeve. She must know how that burned. Knew it sent them staggering, complex and agonizing, something only just less than a kick to the crotch. Had seen them stop work abruptly for it, watched them wrap the bruises careful; there was nothing left to clean cuts with and too few gloves between them anymore. Bad luck that she'd grabbed his right--the bare hand. His palm was half-open--the skin slid on leather, tried to stick.
And the sensation that rushed up his spine made it almost impossible to think.
"What did you," it shivered out of his mouth like a living thing, "what did you bite me for?"
Meaning why my hand, you awful, too-clever creature.
Silence.
She wasn't there. She had never been there. He'd dreamed her up in his insomnia, so many days awake he didn't remember that he never dreamed anymore, hadn't dreamed of anything but the end of the world for almost thirty years. She didn't exist.
There were no eyes in the walls. He was imagining things.
His laser was gone. And he'd be killed for an equipment malfunction if he didn't or couldn't find a way out of here.
The sound skittered up and through his backbone, soft and sticky with grit, like a drift of iron shavings, magnetic dust, ionic and metallic on his tongue. He tried to laugh back, rooted to the spot, and got only air, an open gasp.
"You know I can't," the thought stuttered there, stalled, became something else entirely, "I can't help you if you won't let me see."
Repair. That was what he'd passed this way for, why he'd twisted down this hallway--one that he was beginning to realize he'd never seen before, one that wasn't in the schematic. That wasn't unusual; she grew slowly but at a constant they couldn't quite calculate, in sudden wet starts, sprouting old new cable from ancient fiber and devoured steel. Was it like eating, he wondered; was it like knowing you were dead?
It was never cold anymore. She'd set the temperature too high and kept it there, ever since they'd come in from the snow and he'd first discovered that feeling. Knowing he was being watched.
She was laughing, and it hurt, but it was worse when she stopped. When the floor began to soften and sag. Wasn't a floor at all, same as the walls, all wire, crawling, seething. He dropped to a crouch, strained to keep his footing, to keep from being caught--no telling how far he had to fall, in the wet green dark.
His laser was gone. Taken or eaten. Did she want his boots, too?
He stooped and bled on her, clutching his fingers tight in his sleeve. She must know how that burned. Knew it sent them staggering, complex and agonizing, something only just less than a kick to the crotch. Had seen them stop work abruptly for it, watched them wrap the bruises careful; there was nothing left to clean cuts with and too few gloves between them anymore. Bad luck that she'd grabbed his right--the bare hand. His palm was half-open--the skin slid on leather, tried to stick.
And the sensation that rushed up his spine made it almost impossible to think.
"What did you," it shivered out of his mouth like a living thing, "what did you bite me for?"
Meaning why my hand, you awful, too-clever creature.
Silence.
She wasn't there. She had never been there. He'd dreamed her up in his insomnia, so many days awake he didn't remember that he never dreamed anymore, hadn't dreamed of anything but the end of the world for almost thirty years. She didn't exist.
There were no eyes in the walls. He was imagining things.
His laser was gone. And he'd be killed for an equipment malfunction if he didn't or couldn't find a way out of here.