Manifestations (32 page)

For two decades he had been the checkpoint between the World Union and greater Earth — which didn’t live with the same unity of principle. He was ambassador, sheriff and commander of the Orbital Weapons Net.

Admiral Shreet looked down at the blue orb with its lumps and brushstrokes of weather. Largely, he could stay distant from the whim of the Will. There were no rivals for his position, as no Earth-grown humans could compete with his record and experience and few of the greater-Earth population took that much interest in the WU and the doings of the earthbound. You weren’t a real roughie if you were a Citizen, and the WU only included Citizens.

He was abreast of Earth’s affairs and had adjusted the satellite coverage to focus surveillance over the Kronos outbreaks and the Cape area. Any time a target was identified, the Admiral could eviscerate it, whether an individual or group; or he could distort a large target area beyond recognition. He tried to make sure it was only a tool of last resort.

‘Admiral Shreet.’

‘Colonel Pinter. I hope you can tell me why your call feels so ominous.’

‘I presume you have been watching the mess going on with the Will.’ Shreet nodded, curtly. Of course he had. ‘Then you must be experiencing the same dilemma as the rest of us. Though your perspective may be somewhat removed.’

‘Somewhat.’

‘Tell me, Admiral. If Earth became ... intolerable, would greater Earth survive?’

‘There are contingencies for such an event. Is it coming to that?’

‘I don’t think it has to, but that isn’t actually what I’m contacting you about.’

‘Oh? Then what is it?’

‘“It” is Kronos. I woke up in a sweat when it struck me that if Kronos is on the Weave, then the weapons net might be open to usurpation too.’

‘Oh, mir, you’re right.’ Shreet paled and touched his hand to the window glass. ‘What do we do?’

‘You need to purge the whole system. Revert to backups from last month.’

‘That will take the OWN out of operation. You’ll be defenceless.’

‘Yes, so I’d urge you to do it as quickly and quietly as possible.’

‘Of course. I can do it all myself. Nobody will know.’

‘There’s another catch, Admiral.’

‘Yes?’

‘Once it’s done you won’t be able to reconnect. Not until we know it is safe.’

‘You want the OWN to be isolated from the Weave? I can’t do that.’

‘You must. You can’t risk contamination.’

‘It goes against the Command.’

‘Do you believe your job is to protect the OWN, or the people of Earth?’

‘The Weave will go mad. What justification can I give?’

‘Now there I had a thought ... how would you feel about declaring independence?’

~ * ~

He stood on the far side of the bridge. Only a short walk and a toll gate before he would be inside the strange zone: Omskya relocation zone, Sector 261. Miles Lizney was fascinated by the place the hakka had dumped Zach after chewing him up and, since no one above seemed to care, he would have to investigate himself.

The Siberian Terminus was a unique wasteland, formed by the detonation of a nuclear weapon within a broadcast distortion field. Ten thousand kilometres of animals, trees and Örjians killed or irrevocably changed by the sting of the Scorpion. It was an explosion of forced mutations that brought many new species into existence. Nearly all of whom died.

The survivors were moved to Omskya Central, the nearest city to the Terminus. A thousand rapid-built settlements for a hundred thousand Örjian children, care of the miraculous mechanics of the new union. The relocation towns covered a greater area than the rest of STOC, though the main population kept itself to its tall buildings and modern conveniences. The sectors — 1 through 456 — held approximately ten thousand residents each: technically they were Citizens, but with negligible civic influence and behavioural restrictions, they had next to no value.

The sector towns were built using polyplastic blocks that could be assembled and reassembled. It was the cheapest and most flexible way to expand a city, even if the smaller constructions needed to be roped down with ballast to remain sound through storms.

All the sectors looked the same to Miles. They looked the same as when he left them long ago, though the trees were bigger and the grass had died. Prefab towns made to the same plan as the one he had grown up in. Single-storey houses made from one or two units, set along perfectly straight roads with pedestrian ways marked out with thick yellow lines.

He remembered the daily scannings and inspections, checking for signs of fighting or altering. Servicemen strutted along the street making sure the residents weren’t reverting to their old ways.

‘Stand along the yellow lines. Face forward. Face left. About face. Face forward.’

The secret that the would-be scouts were meant to find out about Mister Lizney was that he was once the enemy, or at least the child of the enemy. His parents were part of the Örjian hordes, the pinnacle of genetic advancement and Lamarckian dedication. Twisted and toothy animals who made bloodsport of evolution.

‘The animal must advance.’ He could still hear his father whispering the commandments to him at nights. ‘Change or die. Live and kill. Only this way will humanity survive.’

He shook his head at this now, but at the time, as a boy, his father’s words were his entire world.

‘But, Father, if we are so much better than them, how is it that they keep us prisoner?’ The only answer to that was a beating. A beating to the edge of unconsciousness. A beating that had him removed from his parents and placed with a more obedient family.

He never wanted to have to stand on those lines again.

It was an odd thing to know your parents were insane. An almost unbelievable, inconceivable concept. Can one born in madness ever escape it? He felt it in his veins ... they had been mad, vicious killers. The only excuse for them was the Dark Age of famines and war that had birthed Örj and those who needed something to follow. Örj would lead them out of the darkness, it was said. Instead he took them deeper into it.

When Lizney watched the histories now, pretending that he had no link to them, the madness could sometimes make sense. He watched movies of the hordes loping through city streets, running like wolves and using their claws and scramble-pipes on any who resisted.

Maybe it would be best if he waited and watched a little longer. He found a bench and put a weak dreamer on his neck. His eyes closed and he thought back.

~ * ~

The morning Zach disappeared, Mister Lizney took the day off. He whisked powders into a tea and compiled a report on Omskya 261. Statistically, it was a mystery. For a start, none of its Citizens had been engaging with the Weave for months. While there were many people in the world who chose not to connect, or could not, to have a spontaneous and complete revulsion within a set radius was improbable.

Only the passive data was still being collected from the grid of omnipoles that monitored and transmitted communications, electricity and light. The logs from the o-poles went back to the origins of the encampment, forty-eight years worth of data. In the last five months there had been a notable decrease in accidents, traffic congestion and people being late for their work programs. This timed exactly with the drop-off in Weave usage.

He returned to the area three cycles in a row. Found nothing new. What he did manage to clearly ascertain was that this peace was geographically constrained, confined to Sector 261.

Life there seemed too perfect. Such regularity of patterns was not humanly possible. Human patterns should look more like spaghetti, but these were evolving towards perfectly interlinked circles. Optimal human efficiency.

The problem seemed hard for him to put a finger on. So what if synchronicity in the population had steadily increased? Meal times for example. People’s breakfast times had migrated, allowing for less deliveries and an adjustment of their commuting windows until the optimal density was found for each transit service. ‘This town is too efficient,’ he muttered to himself.

He demersed and went to his kitchen for some water and a patch. He slapped it on the back of his neck and sat down to concentrate on his breathing. The chemicals were meant to fight his genetic tendencies. The anger that the surgeries couldn’t remove.

The place seemed, simply put, the ideal of town planning. It was harmony. Phenomenal harmony. The question was whether it was natural or unnatural. And perhaps, how long it could continue? The harmony had lasted five months without interruption; lasted throughout the manifestation, the psi declaration and now a convocation that could change the destiny of humanity.

Could they be so cut off as to not even have felt what was happening in the wider world? Lizney checked the neighbouring encampments, 260 and 262, whose statistics showed the normal chaos of humanity. There was zero interaction between 261 and the surrounding zones. Food and supplies were delivered by autotruck and humans did not cross between.

Lizney sent his report up the chain. It was a mystery for someone else to investigate.

A week later he hadn’t heard anything back from Services. Receipt of his report had been acknowledged, but with the psi situation and the black masses in Korea and Mexica, there were no weavers to be spared to look into a town that was flagged as having zero problems.

Lizney compiled the week’s data, which remained on trend, and attached it as an amendment to his initial report and sent it again.

He put his helmet on and stood on the empty streets, walking up and down the quiet lanes for any sign of life. ‘All quiet in 261,’ he whispered to himself.

He performed the same routine for the next three days. Adding updated data and resubmitting his results. Services remained unconcerned by the harmonious life in Omskya 261, but did respond by asking him to stop making reports.

~ * ~

There was only one thing left for him to do and that was travel there himself ... now he sat looking across the divide, looking over at his childhood streets.

There was a line where he knew the zone of perfection faltered. Beyond it the statistical anomalies disappeared and people lived their imperfect lives of mistake and correction. The border followed the arms of a stormwater drain that broke the relocation zones into sections. On one side 261, on the other 262.

There was no difference that he could see from the far side of the bridge. The people were dressed the same as people in 261, and walked between their destinations with no more hurry or fuss. The housing was regulation, painted in cheery pastels with white trimmings. Everything designed to make the Örjians feel normal and part of the new civilisation.

What should he do now? How could he find out what was happening on the other side? Could he simply enter 261 and ask someone what was happening? Did they even know it was happening?

Lizney opened the tin with his patches in it and put one on each wrist. As the calm went into his blood he stepped forward. His approach went unwatched. The Citizens continued about their business.

Halfway across the bridge he began to relax. He felt a little silly coming here. Why would Services bother investigating a place where nothing was wrong? Lizney laughed at himself.

Beside him a small boy took his hand and began leading him down the street.

‘How did you find me?’ the boy asked.

Lizney merely had to think about his last two weeks and what had led him here and the boy understood. His memories were passed onto him as easily as a ping.

‘Thank you,’ the boy said. ‘I will rectify that.’

Around him the omnipoles powered down and the street darkened until Lizney’s eyes adjusted to the dim spill from the neighbouring sectors.

‘What will you do now?’ Miles asked him.

~ * ~

Shanniya looked over the menu and weighed up her future prospects against her need for some pampering.

Louisa’s was her favourite place. It only cost slightly extra to have a human server than a bot — and it was so much more decadent. She could talk to a human — well, she could talk to a bot too, but they only had preprogrammed responses. They couldn’t understand what it was like to be a modern woman. How could they? If she told a bot how her partner, Jeremy, was leaving her, what would it say? ‘Oh, dear, that is very sad. Perhaps a new haircut will make you feel better?’

She only knew he was leaving her because the alerts she had on his stream kept reporting the contact he’d had with other women. All those unexplained greyouts. No honest man needs that much privacy.

She sighed and went inside. Her prospects were low and a head rub wasn’t going to solve anything, but it would help her relax. She didn’t even know if she cared. He wasn’t the most hygienic of partners and his idea of mutual contribution was for her to cook, clean and work up the cash for food. All he did was keep hold of the nice third-floor apartlet. If anything she should be the one leaving him.

The matron of the parlour welcomed her and led Shanniya to a couch where she could put her head back and let the comical servitor massage and treat her hair. ‘Would you like to immerse while you’re waiting?’

Shanniya nodded and lay back. She went straight to the femme sites, where the streams of celebrities were catalogued, and the highlights and low points of their lives were displayed for her amusement. She couldn’t focus on any of the articles or quizzes, they were too close to how she was feeling —
Is it you or him
?
Should you jump him or dump him?
— and then a question caught her eye.
Would you like to follow your bliss
?