Manifestations (3 page)

‘What do you plan to do?’ asked a man from Seoul, one of the closest major cities to the incident.

‘First, we are quarantining the area, then we are going to find out more before making a decision. Next.’

The questions came faster and Ryu didn’t even look to see who was asking.

‘Is this a localised phenomenon?’

‘We believe so.’

‘Is it spreading?’

‘At this point in time it has stopped advancing. Whatever this is, it seems to attack inorganic materials and animals only. We have severed connections to the area, including basic services. Next question.’

~ * ~

Not a screen in the world showed anything but the incident. Headlines scratched their way into every banner. And the town faces were aghast, epileptic or overloaded in stunned despair. When people looked up at them they knew they should be worried.

‘The Corner’ was a popular segment for those with a light interest in civic matters. Prue Gella was the host and with her was Roger Applebent, a mid-level civic advisor.

‘Another disaster today for the WU, this time from the East-Asian Peninsula. Roger, how do you think the Primacy will react?’

They collected the available footage into a looping stream for their viewers and spoke over the top. Screens showed an orbital aspect, a collation of cameras from the ground before the data was cut off; a frenzied slideshow of the black wave sloshing and clawing into the streets and consuming the people in its path.

‘Prue, at times like these it’s all about containment. Containment. Containment. Containment.’

‘And then?’

‘They need to find out if this is a natural disaster or not.’

‘What else could it be?’

‘Man-made.’

‘Like what?’

‘Any number of things. An underground chemical deposit. A leftover weapon from the wars. There’s a strong chance this has something to do with Pierre Jnr. Or the psi rebellion.’

‘Do you have any basis for that speculation?’ Prue asked.

‘Only the scale of the event, Prue. That’s all I can say at this time.’

‘But you know more?’ she led.

‘Which I’ll neither confirm nor deny.’

‘Alright, let’s talk about the civic implications. The Weave doesn’t often like to be shut out. How do you think this new data blockout will be met? And remembering that it has only been a matter of weeks since the Cape was quarantined from the Weave.’

The voice of Roger Applebent chuckled. ‘Probably not well. But I’d like to remind your viewers not to be hasty. Responsible Citizens take time with their decisions. In my opinion, the Primacy is doing the right thing. We need to ascertain the level of the threat. We have to be cautious.’

‘So you’re saying it’s okay to obscure the public’s right to know?’

‘Prue, you know that’s not true. The orbital view is open for everyone to see. The public can watch what is happening.’

‘But there is nothing from the ground teams. We know many Services personnel have been called to the area.’

‘And I say we should let them have a few hours to assess.’

‘Alright. That’s all we have time for. I’m Prue Gella speaking with Roger Applebent. Roger, a few last words?’

‘I think we just have to trust in our leaders for now. As a concerned Citizen, I wouldn’t be rocking the boat.’

‘Next in “The Corner”, Julia Couling will be interviewing Lucius Gregg about his new meme science and to hear his speculations on the beast of Busan.’

~ * ~

Colonel Abercrombie Pinter was eating strawberries. He thought nothing had ever tasted so good.

He had been in the rejuvenation centre for over two months now and what they hadn’t told him about was how his sense for flavour would come back. For years, he thought he had just grown so used to everything that eating was dull. But now that his tongue was reborn he was making his way through every food he could order.

The rejuvenation centre Pinter was resting in had perfect weather control. He was sitting in an expansive courtyard by an artificial oasis. There was greenery everywhere: in planters, garden beds and climbing the high white walls of the housing units. A drove of friendly gardening bots waved and chirped whenever a patient walked past.

Pinter was cynical enough to see the artifice behind the place. The architecture was designed to inspire. Rejuvenation was the new miracle and the centres that were beginning to pop up were embracing the magic for all it was worth. Elegant narrow buildings, like settings for art-deco fairy tales, clustered casually amongst common gardens and leisure groves and pools. A face stared down from the tallest of the lofts, smiling like a loving parent at the joy and content of its children below.

Like the others, Colonel Pinter was dressed in comforts: padded gowns that cosily protected their bodies, which were carefully wound up in rewind tape. Without the robes they looked like mummies. His face was painted with gels and he hadn’t yet seen what was underneath.

It was a three-month period of relaxation — though his body was still eager for exercise. The Colonel was renewed. He felt it deep inside him. He felt invigorated like a cold shower was washing through him.

He watched a young woman get out of the pool. She was probably over sixty years old but had rejuved to the body of an eighteen-year-old, yet keeping her silvered hair as a memento. Her transformation was almost complete; only her hands and face were still cloaked in rewind. Was it lascivious of him to look at her this way?

In talking with some of the other guests they had quickly developed a parlance to speak of their age. He was a seventy-eight thirty; his first life, or body, aged seventy-eight years, was rejuved to the comparable age of thirty. As he grew older only his second age would increase.

Was it fear of death that had made him rejuv? He told himself it was duty, but there were other people, younger, who could have taken his place. Was he being a fool? Part of him knew the answer why. That when it came down to it, he could never really be sure that anyone else would do what needed to be done.

One night he was lying awake, when music reached his room. There was only a single female voice repeating soft syllables around the strums of a harp, but he could have sworn he recognised it: ‘Forget Me as I Was’ ... a song from the wars.

He had noticed that, along with his body, his memories were being revived and more and more he thought of things he had avoided thinking about for years. When he was thirty last time, he’d been in the rough with his men, leading a guerrilla cavalry against the Örjian horde. An army that had lost its country. He had started out with ten battalions behind him, but they were out in it for a month, cut off from a command base. No communications, no strategy. Supplies ran out and they were living off any food they could take.

His hundreds became fifty. Each day they rode their annihilators — ten-foot-high, eight-legged programmable killing machines — looking for Örjians. The winds were tearing up everything and were filled with stones and sticks. The soldiers kept their heads wrapped and let the annihilators do the hunting. They could track like bloodhounds and discern genetic targets from the faintest of evidence.

He and the soldiers in his band slept in plastic puff tents, torn and patched. After weeks without a full wash the tents began to reek — he remembered that smell distinctly — but there was nothing to be done about it. Living in hard buildings made you an easy target, so they were always moving. Never stopping in the same place and never crossing the same territory. During the day they hunted monsters, in the night they waited for the monsters to find them. Sometimes they played songs, like the one he was hearing this night, to keep them warm.

He leant out his window to gauge where the music was coming from. It wasn’t from his tower, but it was nearby. Pinter slid on some flat shoes and went for a wander. The song didn’t stop. The woman singing it just kept stroking her harp and calling out to him like a siren.

Pinter found the building and looked up to see the singer, but she wasn’t sitting at the window as he had pictured so he went inside. The foyer of her tower was decorated with colourful geometric tiles on the ceiling and floor. He climbed the stairs, pausing to listen at each door to see if that was where the singer lived.

At the third floor he knocked and the singing stopped.

‘Who is it?’ a voice asked.

‘Just another guest. I heard you singing,’ he answered through the door.

‘I’m sorry. I’ll stop.’

‘No, no. Please don’t. Would you mind if I came in to listen?’

The door opened slowly and stopped at an inch. An eye looked at him. ‘You want to listen to me sing?’

‘Yes, please. I remember that song. It takes me back.’

‘I find I can’t remember the words.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I used to listen to it a lot when I was younger. I mean the first time I was younger.’ He smiled.

‘Okay.’ She gave in. ‘Just let me get more appropriately dressed.’

He waited outside, listening to the sounds of rushed tidying.

‘Come in.’

She was sitting near the window, in a square of light from the moon. A small pad harp rested on her lap. What he could see of her was beautiful. Her skin was painted like his, and her silver hair was brushed straight. Pinter realised she was the sixty-something eighteen he’d been watching swim and tried not to blush. It really was the singing that had brought him here, he hadn’t known it would be her.

Pinter sat near her on a big cushion — ha, he was sitting on the floor. It had been a long time since he’d done that for fun. The thought made him smile again, and the girl smiled back nervously.

She began strumming back and forth over the instrument’s tactile sensors. The harp was meant to be a leisurely thing to play that, no matter your proficiency, would sound tranquil and in time with the song you had selected. When she was done he went to her, bowed and kissed her hands.

‘Thank you. That was lovely.’

‘I am glad you enjoyed it.’

‘I remember when that song became popular. I was the age I am now.’

‘Oh. I was younger.’

‘It seems more appropriate every time I hear it,’ he said.

She tilted her head, letting her fingers trail on the pad harp. ‘What does it make you think of?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘A woman?’

‘No,’ he chuckled. ‘Nothing like that. Though, I guess it was about women for a lot of us. When I was a soldier, there were many days when we didn’t know if we’d see the other end. I think that song was just the most beautiful thing we could find in the nightmare.’ He clenched his fist. Even rejuvenation couldn’t make him forget the mud that was his skin. It would always be there under the surface.

‘Oh, a soldier. Are you Colonel Pinter?’

‘Yes,’ he answered, lifting his head to watch her reaction. She didn’t seem fussed either way. Neither afraid nor titillated.

‘I had heard you were here. The Scorpion returns, they say.’

‘I never did like that name.’

For the first time she laughed, a golden spring of humour. She was laughing at him and he didn’t mind. ‘You have many names that are worse.’

‘There is no need to remind me. What should I call you?’

‘You can call me Gretel.’

She stood and put her hand forward for shaking. It was soft and small and delicate and his own hand seemed to consume it like his body wanted to consume hers.

‘I think we should say goodnight, Colonel.’ She put a gentle hand to his chest.

‘Please call me Abe.’

‘If you like. Goodnight, Abe.’

~ * ~

Colonel Pinter was sitting down to his morning routine of papes, caf, butter and pepita cakes with a large bowl of medicinal yoghurt he had to eat. It had a strange savoury taste for yoghurt.

His door chimed and he lowered his papes. ‘Come in.’

The door opened for Gretel. For the last two days they had seen each other at exercise and she had smiled at him, but hadn’t spoken. It looked like she was through the rewind stage, and so there were dabs of the blue gel behind her ears, over her forehead, and probably every crease of skin the tape hadn’t covered.

She held a handscreen that she put in front of him. ‘I’ve been reading your book.’

Abercrombie picked it up and skimmed through the text. His heart raced at the memories it triggered. It covered the time leading up to the foundation of the WU and the Siberian solution, all the way back to when they had lost their country. He and his men had thought they were dead so often they began considering themselves already gone. None of them lost that feeling over the years. They had spoken of it amongst themselves because they couldn’t speak to anyone else about it.

The Colonel put the screen down. ‘Pure fiction,’ he said.

She looked at him, a half-formed smile on her lips. ‘May I join you?’

‘Please do.’ Another meal was brought for her and they ate quietly for a minute.

‘When you wrote —’

Abercrombie put his cutlery down. ‘Please, don’t start on the memoir.’