Manifestations

by David M Henley

  Anchali, you once told me about some people you worked with. Can they help us?

  She shook her head.

  No ... they can’t help.

  But if we could contact them? There must be a way.

  Peter ... I was the one sent to help you.

  And you did, you did help me. Don’t you remember? I was in hospital.

  I remember. And now we are here.

  Anchali rolled back and clutched her pillow to cry into.

  Pete straightened up to go, but her fingers caught at his sleeve. Stay. I need to show you something.

  You can’t. You need to sleep.

  He was confused. Her mind was completely disoriented. One moment she didn’t know who he was, then she hated him, the next she wanted to join with him.

  But I must. There’s so much you don’t know. I need to show you what we are fighting for.

  We aren’t doing much fighting here. Except between ourselves.

  That is why I must show you. I must show you La Gréle’s dream.

  Who is this La Gréle? He had heard the name in the thoughts of other inmates many times.

  La Gréle is our leader. She will guide the psis to freedom.

  Do you really believe that?

  Her hands reached up to touch his face and she directed his eyes down to meet hers. Let me show you.

  What do I have to do?

  She patted the mattress for him to lie beside her. Get as close to me as you can. We have to become a part of each other. Do you trust me?

  Do you trust me? he asked back.

  I do.

  Anchali began humming a song she had known from her younger life, and with it every memory of when she had heard it. He felt the comfort of her mother, the friendly kinship of the village she was raised in. The lapping of the waves in the bay, the warm press and push of skin on skin.

  Relax, Peter. Be calm. We cannot join our thoughts with your mind pulling in a thousand directions at once.

  I’m concentrating.

  Don’t concentrate. Think of something else. Think of the ocean.

  He slipped easily into the familiar memory: sand being sucked through his toes; water washing over his ankles, sinking his feet further into the beach. Away and return. Deeper and deeper. Then all of a sudden his mind was overcome by darkness. He was in that other place.

  Where have you taken us, Peter? her thoughts asked.

  I woke up here. He was on his back in the greasy mud under Atlantic. Blood dripping from a hot cut on his head.

  What do you see?

  Black. Just black and stars.

  Do you feel anything?

  Cold. Water.

  I can feel it.

  Are we communing now?

  Not yet. You must relax. Try to find my memory again, as I have found you.

  Then Tamsin was leaning over him. Her hand cradled his face, holding it steady. Tamsin, he thought to her. You came back. She didn’t hear him; she was only a memory.

  Tamsin dabbed at his face. She said something but the words were too echoey for him to understand.

  Then she was standing up. Peter tried to hold onto her, but she pulled free. Don’t leave ... take me.

  He felt the cold and black once more. Water washed around him, sinking him into the grimy sand.

  Let it take you, a voice said. Follow me, Peter. I am the water ... I am all around you. Pulling you into the sun ... That’s it. Sink in the sand. You are the sand and I am the water. Can you feel me around you? the waves seemed to say. Pete’s feet were sand, the water drowning them, grains lifting and swirling in the currents.

  Anchali?

  The water pushed up and around him to his thighs, hips, chest. His body collapsed into slush that then dispersed into the waves. He began to disappear.

  Don’t lose yourself. I am the water. You are the sand.

  The grains of him were pulled through the currents, from cold and dark to deep blue and up towards the sun. The clear water pushed him onto a bright beach. Sunlight drying him until he was crunchy and crisp and yellow. The water was turquoise and bright with day. A tanned girl looked down at the sand under her toes, smiling at him.

  It’s me, Peter, Anchali said.

  Where are we?

  We are back in my memory now. This is my home.

  Her family was part of a fishing tribe living off the bounty of the sea and the land. It was a peaceful life, with little contact to the outside world.

  When she was fourteen a woman came to the island. She arrived on a silver skiff wearing a long white beach dress, and a tinted shade hat over silver hair. The girl, Anchali, reached up to take the woman’s hand and she heard her voice in her head.

  Hello, Anchali. Do you know who I am?

  She did know. When she was asked she found she could see into the woman’s mind. She had come a long way and made many stops to meet children like her.

  La Gréle stayed in the village for days, joining in the daily routines of the tribe and getting to know Anchali’s family. They didn’t know about their daughter and the woman didn’t tell them. It was their secret.

  Anchali was thrilled to have a friend, someone who truly knew her, and they spent hours conversing silently. One night there was a bonfire on the beach. A pit was dug next to it and filled with layers of potatoes, leaves, fish, chicken and vegetables. Coals from the fire were heaped on top for it to cook. While they waited, La Gréle joined in the dancing with the elders, forming a large ring around the fire and the children. As La Gréle circled around she spoke to Anchali.

  Feel what I feel. Know what I know.

  Anchali stared deep into the fire, watching the licks of flames and the logs beneath breathing orange and red. She felt La Gréle’s mind all around her and she began seeing another place.

  Where are we now? Pete asked.

  They were in a child’s bedroom where a toddling girl was playing music on a handscreen.

  Is that her?

  La Gréle. When she was young.

  The child suddenly looked worried. She stopped batting her hands on the screen and frowned. Quickly she went to her cupboards and began packing a bag with clothes. She was ready with coat and shoes when her father ran into the room and picked her up.

  Don’t be scared, luvvy. We’ll be okay.

  Have to go, Daddy! We have to go!

  Her mother was outside in the hover, revving the engine to warm it up.

  Mummy!

  Darling, it’s okay. Hang onto your father.

  They sped off, never to know for sure if they had just evaded capture or whether no one had come for them at all.

  The people were scared, that’s all. It’ll calm down, they told her.

  They lived in the mountains for years, making their way. With the WU came surveillance, and rapid expansion. They retreated as the cities advanced. Always keeping to the wilds, away from everyone. But one night others came without warning. La Gréle woke up, feeling her parents choking.

  Run, darling. Go, they pleaded.

  Outside she could feel soldiers stalking closer. She turned one on the other, forcing them to shoot their comrades. Then the drones came, humming in, smashing at the thin walls, tiny laser shots firing at every movement.

  She could feel her parents slipping away. They begged her to go.

  Anchali was crying. They were back at the beach. Pete felt the sand and the rhythm of the waves.

  And I ran, La Gréle thought to her. People like us are always running.

  Then she showed the girl what she hoped for. Peace, where telepaths and kinetics were Citizens, and together they built a world of potential and harmony. We can be one. One and many.

  La Gréle left the next day. Anchali stood watching her go, waving. Then she just stayed on the beach, letting the sun twinkle her eyes.

  This is how we can know each other, she said to the sand.

  The sand looked up at the sky; it was a deep
bright blue, and yet it could see stars glinting through. There were thoughts behind those lights. He could sense them.

  ‘What are those stars?’ he asked. He made them be closer.

  ‘Peter, what are you doing?’ Anchali asked urgently. The ocean was lifting up around her but her feet were so deep in the sand she couldn’t pull them free. ‘Stop it,’ she cried. ‘You’re taking over my memory.’

  The water rose over the island, dissolving the palms and huts. The girl tried to hold on, but she too succumbed to the wash.

  The sea rose and he swirled up with it until the water and sky met. The stars were swallowed, pulled from above to sink and swim. He was the water now, he was everywhere.

  He filled the white room and spilt in a rush out the door like an exploding dam. He filled the corridor and flooded the centre, sweeping every mind along with him.

  He felt each one of them and they him. Then they began connecting one by one, through him and he wasn’t Peter Lazarus. He was something else.

  ‘I understand now,’ it said calmly.

  ~ * ~

  The Betts Manifesto, as Anti-Psi League supporters sneeringly referred to it, caused such turbulence in the Will that many began recognising that the WU was now, most definitively, in a state of convocation. Just as Amy had predicted.

  Not every Citizen was interested, naturally. There are always many who simply want to live their lives. If something didn’t directly impact their day, then they saw no need to vote upon it. Many families and units had one or more members who asked them to change the screen to something more entertaining.

  ‘I hate this mess. All this talk. Just words words words and what good does it do us?’ exclaimed a veteran.

  ‘But the world has to decide, doesn’t it?’ his granddaughter replied. She was wearing the psi patch on her chest.

  While many were dismissive and remained disengaged, the rest of the World Union was focused on discussing the minutiae, following the declarations, motions and interviews of the important speakers.

  ‘Well, it’s day two of what they are starting to call “the marathon cycle”. Phyllis, how do you think the Primacy is sleeping?’ The guest laughed along with the anchorman’s joke.

  ‘I’m sure nobody in the council is getting much rest now, Derwent. Nor their staff. Since the security breach at the Cape we have been in a relentless circle of proposal and reaction, proposal and reaction. And it doesn’t look like it will end any time soon.’

  ‘What do you think we’ll see in the next three hours?’

  ‘Three hours? Well, the sun is coming up on Seaboard which means Charlotte Betts will re-enter the frame. She’s the only member I know of who wasn’t online in the last eight.’

  ‘She is a big believer in getting her rest.’

  ‘Touché. Though there is boldness in her refusal to be reactive, and perhaps some wisdom in letting the other players move first.’

  ‘That may be true. And what do you think of the rumours that Betts might rise further? Now that the elder Betts has added her support, do you think the Betts Manifesto can get her all the way to the Prime seat?’

  ‘I’m not a gambling woman, Derwent. At the moment I’d say there is an even chance. It depends how the next sessions fall out and what direction the Will supports.’

  ‘Alright, it’s now 4.45 a.m. in Yantz zone 1. We’ll be back in eight hours with our dissection of the Prime’s opening debate, which will be starting in three hours and fifteen minutes.’

  ~ * ~

  Ryu spent the predawn hours in what Gladys Schuster called ‘narrative training’ ... to help him learn the art form of rendering the mess of opinions, emotions and misperceived facts into a single clear thread that viewers could support, follow and endorse.

  If he could successfully guide the narrative of each interview, then his motions should be supported. If he couldn’t convince the Will, then he would likely lose his position.

  Together they went over the history he had composed with his team. The history as spoken by the office of Prime — while he still held the seat — outlining the causal chain as he saw it and his position on how the World Union should proceed. It was his job to provide the voice and the story that the Will would believe.

  Ryu wasn’t a sophist by any means, but he had watched enough people to know that even slight variations in core beliefs could have profound effects on what conclusions different people drew from the same evidence.

  For the past three cycles, Gladys had been assaulting him with oppositional questions, trying to throw him off the agreed message as the interviewers would attempt to do. His answers must never contradict themselves so he repeatedly ran through the base facts until he knew them instinctively.

  After the second Dark Age there were increased sightings of psionic incidents. Whether humans always had such potential, and could no longer remain hidden under almost full surveillance, or whether the wars had changed something fundamental in the human animal, no one could state for sure.

  No matter one’s beliefs or personal context, the phenomena of telepathy and telekinesis were recorded and measured. Some Citizens were curious, but more were afraid and psis were collected and isolated to protect the World Union from destabilisation.

  The birth and disappearance of Pierre Jnr frightened the Will into supporting further restriction of psis, and archipelagos of plastic islands were built to house all those who could be collected.

  Ryu Shima had been raised to Prime when an unexplained explosive force destroyed an historic area of Paris. Some say it was an anarchist group, others that it was the beginning of a psi uprising. Many speculated that it was the long-awaited return of the boy, Pierre Jnr, come at last to save the psis and wreak revenge upon the world that had abused them.

  On November 13th, 2159, the psi rebellion attacked the Services outposts in Atlantic and the Shima family home in Yantz.

  ‘Your goal is not to try and convince them. Your goal is to make them believe in you,’ Gladys said, gesticulating. She was in her own office below, pacing in front of a wall-screen holding his projection. He hadn’t seen her in person since he first came to the needle. He hadn’t seen anyone since Shima Palace had been breached.

  ‘Isn’t that the same thing?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Imagine Representative Betts is arguing her case. Instead of spending your time eroding her proposal, let her wear herself out justifying her beliefs while you show yours in your actions.

  ‘You have the advantages, Prime. Firstly, you are already Prime, and secondly, because Charlotte Betts is a very intelligent woman. So intelligent that she has the ability to doubt her own conclusions. That is her weakness. What is yours?’

  The question caught Ryu off guard. He didn’t have a prepared answer.

  Gladys answered for him. ‘Your leadership has recently suffered some setbacks. That is your weakness. It undermines your directives.’

  ‘They weren’t my fault —’ he said.

  ‘Nobody wants to hear that from the Prime,’ she cut him off. ‘Say that and you’ve lost their confidence.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that I take the blame?’

  ‘Embrace it. You are the Prime. You are the Will. Your failures are their failures. No matter what, do not distinguish yourself from the World Union. You are one and the same, for better or worse.’

  ‘And Charlotte Betts is not,’ he said. ‘But I have already put my support towards her proposal. How can I withdraw it now?’

  ‘You don’t. You just work on the details. Slow it down with questions about specifics.’

  ‘Tie her up with contingency planning.’

  ‘That’s right. Until the Will recognises that Representative Betts is an agitator who does not support the World Union and is trying to undermine the Will.’

  ‘Do you bear this woman a grudge, Miz Schuster?’ he asked her. That last statement had been vehement.

  ‘I believe her policies are dangerous
.’

  ‘So how do I distract from questions about my recent failures?’

  ‘As you have always done, you have taken action and brought in one of history’s greatest commanders to control the situation.’

  ‘Colonel Pinter. How does the world perceive him now?’

  ‘With mixed memories. We will begin seeding new imagery for the Colonel before the debate. He will be the hero, our saviour. History already says so.’