Read Online Asimov's Science Fiction: October/November 2013 by Penny Publications - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Penny Publications
Tags: Asimov's #453 & #454
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notified the cops that I was missing. Then, in full gear, she mopped up the basement ooze, sealed the door from inside the laundry room, and climbed backward out the window to seal that, too, so she wouldn't contaminate the house. Standing next to her, I saw that her coversuit was smeared—front and back—with even more muck than mine!
She pointed toward the bioshower.
"I can't," I shouted. "I won't."
She pointed again, with emphasis. I pushed up the right sleeve of my coversuit to show her my bruised arm. The tiny vein tendrils had thickened. Two of them curled all the way from my elbow to my inner wrist.
Mom grasped the wrist and gently turned it to expose the topside of my arm streaked with muck, which must have rubbed off from the sleeve. Her muffled voice leaked through the helmet's visor. "Please," she said, stroking my hand. "Please." She sounded like she was going to cry.
So I caved and went through the ultravac. I expected the machine to tear off the delicate hair that had begun to grow back all over my body, especially the pale fuzz on my head. But along with the hair, the vac ripped papery layers from my arms, belly, and thighs. I gripped the handholds so hard I thought my fingers would break, but I didn't scream. I refused to give Mom the satisfaction.
Instead, I squeezed my eyes shut and tensed my muscles. When the drying jets shut off, I stepped into the dressing room and glanced down as I reached for a tunic. Tiny pink tendrils crisscrossed my right arm in patches where the layers of skin had torn off. More tendrils, purple and magenta, rippled across my belly and thighs. Red dots flecked my left arm, as if the machine had sprayed blood instead of chemicals and water. But the dots were under the skin, spiraled tight like fern heads. I lifted my arm to examine them. Two of the bigger dots prickled and began to uncoil.
Then I did scream, but Mom was in the ultravac and couldn't hear.
I tossed the tunic on the floor and scrambled naked through the airlocks. In my room, I flicked on the glowscreen and peered at my skin in its soft light. I watched in fascination as new dots surfaced and unfurled along my knees. Then I felt sick to my stomach. My skin tickled and itched, like it was pierced by tiny needles. I lay clutching the edges of the bedspread and tried to sleep. But then the rain started. I heard the drops drumming on the skylight, first gentle, then hard and steady. And the needles in my skin seemed to answer, pricking and pulsing in time with every drop.
The rain continued all night long and on into the day. The pain came in waves. Mom knocked at the door, and I told her I wanted to sleep in, and she said okay. At noon she set a bowl of chicken noodle soup outside the door, but I couldn't get out of bed. She came back an hour later and tried to coax me out the old-fashioned way, by talking to me through the door. That was nice of her, because she could have just opened it up with the system control pod or screeched into my earplants. I told her that I had one of those headaches, like hers, and she said she understood and left me alone.
Sometimes, I caught whiffs of the burnt sugar smell and wondered if the brown ooze that spilled into the basement had leaked into the ventilation system and stunk up my room. I slept for the rest of the day and all through the night.
I woke late the next morning and knew: the smell didn't come from the basement or my room. It came from me. My joints throbbed and lines spiraled everywhere on my skin. Purple tendrils twined down my legs and curled along both arms, patterned like the filigree silver Becca loved to wear.
I ran my hand across my belly, and the sugary smell grew stronger. The rest of my skin itched like crazy. When I scratched, thumbnail-sized pieces of skin floated to the floor, like wings detached from a housefly. I grabbed my tweezers and plucked at a loose bit fluttering on my left shoulder. The bit lengthened to a strand, unspooling down my arm. I
She pointed toward the bioshower.
"I can't," I shouted. "I won't."
She pointed again, with emphasis. I pushed up the right sleeve of my coversuit to show her my bruised arm. The tiny vein tendrils had thickened. Two of them curled all the way from my elbow to my inner wrist.
Mom grasped the wrist and gently turned it to expose the topside of my arm streaked with muck, which must have rubbed off from the sleeve. Her muffled voice leaked through the helmet's visor. "Please," she said, stroking my hand. "Please." She sounded like she was going to cry.
So I caved and went through the ultravac. I expected the machine to tear off the delicate hair that had begun to grow back all over my body, especially the pale fuzz on my head. But along with the hair, the vac ripped papery layers from my arms, belly, and thighs. I gripped the handholds so hard I thought my fingers would break, but I didn't scream. I refused to give Mom the satisfaction.
Instead, I squeezed my eyes shut and tensed my muscles. When the drying jets shut off, I stepped into the dressing room and glanced down as I reached for a tunic. Tiny pink tendrils crisscrossed my right arm in patches where the layers of skin had torn off. More tendrils, purple and magenta, rippled across my belly and thighs. Red dots flecked my left arm, as if the machine had sprayed blood instead of chemicals and water. But the dots were under the skin, spiraled tight like fern heads. I lifted my arm to examine them. Two of the bigger dots prickled and began to uncoil.
Then I did scream, but Mom was in the ultravac and couldn't hear.
I tossed the tunic on the floor and scrambled naked through the airlocks. In my room, I flicked on the glowscreen and peered at my skin in its soft light. I watched in fascination as new dots surfaced and unfurled along my knees. Then I felt sick to my stomach. My skin tickled and itched, like it was pierced by tiny needles. I lay clutching the edges of the bedspread and tried to sleep. But then the rain started. I heard the drops drumming on the skylight, first gentle, then hard and steady. And the needles in my skin seemed to answer, pricking and pulsing in time with every drop.
The rain continued all night long and on into the day. The pain came in waves. Mom knocked at the door, and I told her I wanted to sleep in, and she said okay. At noon she set a bowl of chicken noodle soup outside the door, but I couldn't get out of bed. She came back an hour later and tried to coax me out the old-fashioned way, by talking to me through the door. That was nice of her, because she could have just opened it up with the system control pod or screeched into my earplants. I told her that I had one of those headaches, like hers, and she said she understood and left me alone.
Sometimes, I caught whiffs of the burnt sugar smell and wondered if the brown ooze that spilled into the basement had leaked into the ventilation system and stunk up my room. I slept for the rest of the day and all through the night.
I woke late the next morning and knew: the smell didn't come from the basement or my room. It came from me. My joints throbbed and lines spiraled everywhere on my skin. Purple tendrils twined down my legs and curled along both arms, patterned like the filigree silver Becca loved to wear.
I ran my hand across my belly, and the sugary smell grew stronger. The rest of my skin itched like crazy. When I scratched, thumbnail-sized pieces of skin floated to the floor, like wings detached from a housefly. I grabbed my tweezers and plucked at a loose bit fluttering on my left shoulder. The bit lengthened to a strand, unspooling down my arm. I
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