The House of Compassionate Sharers Michael Bishop And he was there, and it was not far enough, not yet. for the earth hung overhead like a rotten fruit, blue with mold, crawling, wrinkling, purulent and alive. —Damon Knight, “Masks” In the Port Iranani Galenshall I awoke in the room Diderits liked to call the “Black Pavilion.” I was an engine, a system, a series of myoelectric and neuromechanical components, and The Accident responsible for this clean and enamel-hard enfleshing lay two full D-years in the past. This morning was an anniversary of sorts. I ought by now to have adjusted. And I had. I had reached an absolute accommodation with myself. Narcissistic, one could say. And that was the trouble.
“Dorian? Dorian Lorca?”
The voice belonged to KommGalen Diderits, wet and breathy even though it came from a small metal speaker to which the sable curtains of the dome were attached. I stared up into the ring of curtains.
“Dorian, it’s Target Day. Will you answer me, please?”
“I’m here, my galen. Where else would I be?” I stood up, listening to the almost musical ratcheting that I make when I move, a sound like the concatenation of tiny bells or the purring of a stope-car. The sound is conveyed through the tempered porcelain plates, metal vertebrae, and osteoid polymers holding me together, and no one else can hear it.
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