Free Head Full of Mountains by Brent Hayward

up, to disperse you, to bring you home. . . .”

    The haptic collapsed. Pinworms had moved quicker and quicker, a writhing mass, accelerated, alongside time, spilling forth from the cage of bones. Flesh was gone altogether.
    “
Osteomalacia
. You’ve had this since you were born. Rickets. Before you were born, even. I knew you suffered while you gestated. I tried to supplement your diet, Crospie, tried to get additional vitamins. I tried so hard. But there’s not much for me to work with here. I did the best I could and I know it’s not good enough. But you’re alive, Crospie, you’re here with me. You’ve retained a large amount of knowledge. You’re a testimony to civilization.”
    Was father also crying? Silent, he had turned away. The conduits at the back of his head rolled against each other and obscured his profile.
    “It’s okay,” Crospinal lied, feeling awkward (and the tinge of a growing, perverse sense of power). “I
know
. I mean, I figured as much. About dying, I mean. We can’t go on forever.” He tried to smile. “Nothing does, right?”
    But then came the barrage, the litany of disease: hyponatremia; anemia; effects of low oxygen. The sour skin ailments of pellagra. Bronchitis. Pneumonia susceptibility.
Cancer
.
    Who could smile now?

    Insistent prodding under his arm caused Crospinal to groan when he wanted only to rest, to be left alone, hopefully forever. He wanted to sort out his own memories, once and for all.
    No apparition could be responsible for this intrusion. Not much could actually
poke
him. Fox? Or Bear? Hadn’t they stepped out? If only he were able to open his eyes, or form words, he could make the intruder cease this affront and return to the relatively peaceful depths of slumber.
    Crospinal’s legs, as always, were sore. But there was other pain, too, not just from his knees, or wrists: his head was sore—had he fallen?—and his chest, which was unusual.
    Something large moved, far away.
    Had father died?
    The prodding relented for a moment. He could not rest any more, not the way he had been, not in oblivion.
    Yes. Father had died.
    A sharp prick, through the sleeve of his uniform, directly into his skin, and darkness rose to enclose him once more.

    Flares shot through his body, exploding along the ridges of his spine and in the crevasses between the twisted loops of his brain. Partitions had sequestered or maybe even amputated whatever was needed
to understand
. Some had broken down, others had a way to go.
Now
he came awake. Shards of light had been waiting; they eagerly stabbed his eyes.
    Prone, in a very bright place. Dried blood raked across his naked belly. Below that—
    Struggling to breathe, to control rising panic, he saw that his uniform had been uncoupled, tricot pulled wide open, chestplate split, exposing his thin white chest—
    And, from the waist down, he’d been consumed by a shiny canister.
    Pushing frantically at the plastic rim to free himself, but his arms were weak and his hands remained clenched in futile claws. The canister would not budge. Sleeves and mitts intact, thankfully. When he tried to wriggle free, his entrapped legs would not move. Not at all. He could not feel his legs. Pushing down again, with the heels of his hands, but he was trapped tight and his legs were unresponsive.
    “Please,” said a soft but insistent voice. “Stay still.”
    At his groin, mounted on a flange at the mouth of the canister, a glowing plate—symbols blinking in red—made absolutely no sense. He had never seen these indications before, nor could he tell where the voice had originated from, though it was from a localized source, like a comm, or a mouth.
    The icon twisting above where his groin should be was of a large worm, with crow’s wings, curled around a rod.
    “What are you? Come out so I can see you.” Bands of muscles tightened in his torso and back as he tried to pull out again. His legs remained numb and useless. He strained, and craned, to