Manifestations

by David M Henley

  ‘I have the cash for them. More than the going rate.’

  ‘But you wish for there to be no questions, do you not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But for there to be no questions for you, there must be no questions asked of me. Which means a little more care.’

  ‘Look, I don’t care who knows. Why can’t you just let me have them?’

  ‘Who are you buying these for, boy? Are you really from the slags? Has Padre Raminez sent you?’

  ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about. This is for me. I want to build a symbiot for my family.’

  ‘And you would know how?’ the salesman scoffed.

  Gomez couldn’t answer that one. He wanted to be brave and claim that of course he could, but he had no idea what it involved.

  ‘With this amount of money you could buy a ready-made model, an anklet say. Would that not be better?’

  ‘I’m going to build my own,’ Gomez insisted.

  ‘Not with our products you’re not. Louisa, please have this grime removed and the waiting room sterilised.’

  ‘But —’ Thick arms were already pulling him up and he was carried bodily out the doors. Soon he was outside on the ground. One of the guards stuffed something in his top pocket.

  ‘Don’t forget your list.’ He laughed and his pal laughed with him.

  Gom stood up, patted off the dirt and looked around for some shade. It was too hot to be exposed. He pulled out his list and found a card had been slipped into his pocket. It was the address of a cantina.

  He found it nearby and sat in a booth, quietly hoping to be ignored. He watched unfamiliar foods go past him to other tables, the smells encouraging the saliva in his mouth.

  He stood up after ten minutes, but a hand pushed him confidently back down.

  One of the guards from the merchant sat down opposite him and picked up the menu, speaking as he swiped through the offerings. ‘Some interesting things on this menu, muchacho.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘I’m always hungry. The food here is great.’ He tapped for two orders. ‘I bet you never had a real perrito before. They didn’t have those in the slags when I was there.’

  ‘You come from the piles?’ Slags was what rich people called them.

  ‘Sure thing, amigo. Born in and ran from, like you’re doing.’ ‘I’m not running.’

  ‘You just taking a paseo into the Caucus territory? Nah. You on the way out. Now or later.’

  Something arrived. Gomez didn’t know what it was. It steamed even in the pervasive heat. It was a long soft roll of bread, with green chillies, crumbled puff-cheesies and two kinds of salsa on a cylinder of pork mash. The smell nearly made him lose his seat.

  ‘Eat up, little man. Or I will.’

  Gomez looked at how the guard was doing it and tried to mimic. Most of the perrito was knocked out the other end at his first bite, but he was tasting it now and he nearly choked as he gorged the rest of it.

  ‘Slow down, muchacho. Show me that list.’

  Gomez licked his fingers and took the crumpled paper from his pocket. The guard looked it over.

  ‘This stuff is off your level, little man. No wonder they threw you out.’

  ‘What have I done wrong?’

  ‘You went where you weren’t supposed to went. You need a back way in, like me, see.’

  ‘You can get me the ingredients?’

  ‘Sheeba, yes. I got stashes nobody know about.’

  ‘How much will it cost?’

  ‘You come find me here after my shift. My man Dwain will do you a deal. I’ll take you to him.’

  ‘But I’m meant to be home. I can’t stay in the Caucus that long.’

  ‘Your choice.’

  Gomez thought about it. He wasn’t sure he trusted the guard. ‘I’ll be here. But you better not be planning to cheat me.’

  ‘Don’t be so suspicious, amigo. I paid for your meal, didn’t I? My name is Mario by the way. No need to thank me.’

  ~ * ~

  True to his word, Mario returned at dusk. Gomez had been loitering around the cantina all afternoon. The wait staff didn’t seem to be bothered by him and they gave him water.

  Mario made him wait while he drank a beer. He sat at the bar, ignoring Gomez and flirting with the barmaid. ‘Hey, Susanna, you know we were meant for each other:

  ‘Dream on, Mario.’ She seemed to have fun declining his interest.

  ‘Mister Mario, sir. I have to get back. Can we go soon?’

  ‘There you are, amigo. I’ve been waiting for you. I thought you’d left.’ Mario turned off his stool and threw a woollen poncho over him. ‘You’re going to get cold, kid. Didn’t you bring anything warmer?’

  The guard strode off into the streets, Gomez running to catch up. They went a few blocks from the cantina and then through a mall where the stallholders were closing down their stands. Mario turned and went through the loading dock and out the back exit.

  After more turns they came to a dead end, pasted over with street art and advertising posters. The line of a doorway was cut out of the thick paper build-up.

  Mario wiped his finger around his mouth and then pushed it onto a sensor plate hidden under the corner of a torn-up poster. He smiled confidently and the door clicked and opened inward.

  He led Gomez into a dark passageway. Mario pulled the door closed and stopped him going further with a light touch against his shoulder. ‘Register first.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Everyone has to register first.’ Mario motioned for him to roll his finger in his mouth as he had done, and point at a pad by the door.

  ‘Oh, right.’ Gom did as he was told, swabbing his cheek and then pressing his print to the sensor.

  ‘Okay.’ Mario clicked on a wrist lumen and led Gom deeper inside. They went down a ladder through a rough hole smashed in the floor, and then walked further through a second such hole in a foundation wall of a crypt.

  The room was full of decomposing robots and floor-to-ceiling shelving. Many of the bots still had batteries that operated their pneumatic arms and bearings. Buzz, shuffle, scrape. Faulty sensors made them cut their movements short and then repeat, ad infinitum. The shelves were choked with boxes and components in dense organisation. Delicate metal servitor arms moved on floor and ceiling rails that ran around the room.

  ‘Dwain? Are you awake?’ Mario called out.

  In answer, a pair of the arms reached out and took the poncho jacket from him. ‘Thanks, Dwain. I brought you a customer,’ he said.

  An arm reached out, digits cupped like an open hand. He stared at it. ‘Shake it, amigo. You don’t want to be rude.’

  Gomez shook the thing and followed Mario down the central aisle. They came to a wall of repaired screens with a man in a helmet sitting in silhouette against their fulgent displays. ‘Hey, Dwain.’ The man raised his hand and the two of them bumped their palms together.

  ‘This is Gomez. He threw some flags up at Faro today.’

  ‘I saw. What’s the game, Gomez?’ Dwain asked. He waved his hand to him, but didn’t remove his helmet. Mario handed the requisition sheet to one of the arms and took a seat.

  ‘Game? I’m just trying to get some materials. I don’t know what the problem is.’

  ‘The problem is nobody is allowed these materials. The big WU says so.’

  ‘What? They can’t do that?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Gomez. Mario has brought you to the right place. We’ve got what you need. You got what we need?’

  He opened his sack and presented the contents to the man. Dwain stayed under his helmet and didn’t look, only his arms closed in to pick through the pile. It pushed a small portion back towards the boy.

  ‘That will be enough.’

  ‘Really? Thanks, mister,’ Gom said. He hadn’t been expecting any change.

  ‘Hey, what about my finder’s fee, Dwain?’ Mario asked.

  Th
e arms picked out some of the cash and laid it before him. ‘That should do it.’ Mario swept it up and folded it into his pocket.

  There was a lot of rapid activity as Dwain’s servitor extensions ran around the room, collecting all the pieces of Gomez’s order.

  ‘Do you have a heat regulator?’ Dwain asked.

  ‘No. Do I need one?’

  ‘Yes, you do. Diffusers? No? Smooth brush? No. I’ll add those.’ Some of the change Dwain had given him was taken back to cover the extra items.

  Very soon an insulated crate was set before him filled with transparent bladders in different colours, small canisters of powder, and equipment wrapped in packing foam.

  ‘How can I get this out of here? It’s too heavy.’

  Mario rolled his eyes and bent to the box. He turned a knob and it rose up on stilted wheels. ‘It’s a trolley, idiot. I told you Dwain was the best, didn’t I? He doesn’t leave his customers wanting.’

  ‘Only wanting to come back,’ Dwain quipped. The two slapped hands again.

  ‘But how do I get home? The checkpoints are closed, and I’ve already been here too long.’ The main way into and out of the Caucus was through one of twenty underpasses. During daylight they were manned, and the staff recorded all travellers; at night the passes were shut and only air transport could access the city.

  ‘Hey, Dwain, have you got a mask this kid can wear?’ An arm glided along the shelves, took out a gas mask and dropped it into Gom’s hands. ‘There’s always a way out of a city, Gomez. Remember that.’

  ‘You’ll come with me?’

  ‘I’ll show you the way out, sure. But it’ll cost ya.’ Mario winked. Gomez didn’t feel he had much choice.

  The way out was fine, if he didn’t think about it, following the sewer line that pumped away the waste of the city. Mario waved him off at a release duct that opened into barren desert.

  ‘The road back to the slags is that way,’ he said, pointing east.

  ‘Okay. Thanks, Mario.’

  ‘Just make sure you find me when you come back to town.’

  He found the road easily enough, a hard-packed smoothway for hovers and wheels that led back to the piles. He thought he could see the rise of the junk heaps on the horizon and began walking, the trolley following obediently behind him.

  Before too long a pair of lights flashed him, a hover coming in fast. He picked up his father’s call sign on his scanner, and signalled back. The hover slowed down as it pulled in close to him.

  ‘Gom, thank the light you’re okay.’ His father leapt out of the vehicle and wrapped his boy in a hug. ‘Now what could possibly have been worth all this trouble?’

  Gomez opened the box for him to see.

  ‘What is this? We can’t have these. How did you get them?’

  ‘I wanted to build a symbiot. It could really help us.’

  ‘A symbiot? Don’t be loco, Gomez.’

  ‘No, think of it, Papa. Think what we could do with it.’

  His father stopped asking questions and toyed with his chin. ‘I always wanted to automate the smelt. There’s coin in that.’

  ‘And then we could refine too.’

  ‘Ah, Gom.’ He ruffled his son’s hair. ‘I’m so glad you’re alright.’

  Together they packed the box safely into the back seat. Gomez showed his dad how to make the wheels retract. ‘At least there’ll be some use for this cart,’ he joked.

  ~ * ~

  They stayed up late mixing the materials, following the step-by-step Gomez had loaded to his screen. It seemed easy enough. First, he prepared the base — a lidded container that the replicator printed in no time, which he painted with the algomite, a powder he had to mix into a paste that would hold enough nutrients for the synaptic algae.

  His father came in to help after visiting Gom’s mother, and they placed the mixture under a heat lamp and programmed a servitor arm to maintain the stirring. Gom added the ingredients one by one. They are strange oozes, he thought ... such as the veiny one with silver threads, or the navy-blue jam with pale caviar.

  His father went to bed and Gom sat back to wait.

  The next thing he knew he was being woken by his father tapping his foot. Gomez opened his eyes. It was morning. He lurched out of his chair, pushing his father aside in his race to the bench, and was immediately disappointed to see the mixture had turned black.

  ‘What’s wrong, Gom?’ his father asked. ‘What’s it meant to look like?’

  ‘I dunno, but I’m pretty sure that looks dead.’ Gomez poked his finger roughly into the black sludge. ‘Ow, sheeb,’ he swore. His finger felt pierced up the middle and he couldn’t pull it away.

  ‘Mind your language ... Gom?’ His son was arching his back unnaturally and coughing wetly as though choking. He raced forward to catch the boy before he fell and found himself holding Gomez’s head, his eyes glazed, lips hanging open. ‘No ... Gom —’ Black tendrils lanced up from Gom’s mouth, grappling painfully onto his own face.

  ~ * ~

  ‘Forty million were lost today in a second Kronos attack.’

  People reacted in different ways. Sitting. Lying down to view the recordings of the black mass overcoming Mexica. Some joined hands to form peace circles. Many of the town faces cried, their expressions crunching up, eyes squeezing tightly as if tears were about to flow. It was a year of tragedies that wouldn’t end.

  ‘The world is in mourning today following a second outbreak of the Kronos phenomenon. We will now observe a minute’s silence.’

  The Weave was quiet, streams paused where they were, and no messages were sent, no communications or pings. People around the world bowed their heads and waded through the images that would forever haunt them.

  At sixty-two seconds, the mill of the convocation began churning furiously.

  ‘This is the biggest single loss of human life in our history.’

  ‘I’d say that’s the end of Ryu Shima as Prime.’

  ‘I can’t see how he’ll survive this.’

  ‘Gladys Schuster, the Prime’s second-in-command, is about to make a statement.’

  They cut to cameras with Gladys Schuster at a podium at the base of the Prime’s needle.

  ‘Following this second attack, the Prime is calling for a state of emergency.’ Immediately she was asked what that meant. ‘This will mean we will begin preparations to avoid a global collapse. Social engineering teams are now in the process of organising distribution of vital services and technicians.’

  ‘Well, should we be alarmed, Phyllis?’ the presenter asked, as the view came back to the panel in the studio.

  ‘It is hard not to be. This Kronos is far bigger than the one that appeared in Busan. I’d be questioning whether Services can contain it at all.’

  ‘There is no need to cause panic,’ another panellist spoke up. ‘The Kronos beasts only attack man-made structures. Natural boundaries will prevent the further spread of Kronos, as it has in Busan.’

  ‘Do we have any insights into how it got out?’

  ‘Not that anyone is saying.’

  ‘What of the rumours that anarchists built this second Kronos?’

  ‘That suggestion is beyond verification. At this stage, any comments are pure speculation.’

  ‘Okay. Well, viewers, hold tight. We’ll be back with more information as it comes to light.’

  ~ * ~

  Geof was called before the Colonel. He had been up all night working on patterns. ‘How did this happen, Geof?’ Pinter’s eyes seemed sharpened.

  ‘I don’t know, Colonel,’ he answered honestly.

  ‘Is it possible that Kronos somehow escaped from our cordon and made its way to Mexica?’

  ‘I don’t see how.’ Geof shook his head.

  ‘Or was it always there like the one in Busan?’

  ‘No, I think it was ... well, Egon Shelley has a theory.’

  ‘Oh yes? Don’t hold out. The Prime is
desperate for something. And so am I.’

  ‘Egon thinks that Kronos is made of two parts. One being the body, the other being the mind.’

  ‘Is he messing with you?’ the Colonel asked.

  ‘I don’t think so. We don’t know exactly what’s happening. We’re just using those words to describe what we are seeing — and we could be entirely wrong — but it makes some sense.’ Geof forwarded the results of the preliminary experiments. ‘When we reset the mass, it becomes inert, but any sort of network or neural path will awaken it. It could be that it is a mindless body.’