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Mannigan - A Speck of Light

By L. Ross Coulter

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Thick with the incessant crawl of a million mechanical
motions, the air chatters with their sounds. It is hot.
Humid. Legs and arms are outstretched, his ankles and wrists
are held by cold metal braces. Not quite standing or being
suspended, he is hanging somewhere between; not in pain, but
not in comfort.
Ahead of him, a man is held the same way as he, and
ahead of him again, another. And another and another. Each
encompassed by a large metal band that tethers the extended
limbs of their naked bodies.
Some burrowing beneath their skin, a twisted web of
wires runs across their wretched forms, like starving serpents
searching for a meal. And gazing down his own withered body
past a band of tubes spewing from his nose and mouth, he
sees their vicious tendrils wrapped around him.
He tries to scream, but through his stuffed throat and
gaping jaws, nothing more than a shrill gurgle emanates. Eyes
watering, he scans around in panic as his stomach knots in
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dread. Line after line, row after row, level after level; all he can
see are splayed naked bodies, each captive within a metal band
of their own, feeding and being fed. Endless aisles of
perishable human product, stacked and preserved
meticulously in a ghastly display of incomparable utility.
Connected by a labyrinth of glass walkways and
elevators, hooded figures clothed in sterile white coveralls
amble about their business. And as he stares at the huge letters
sprawled across the concrete expanse that reads,
‘STANFORD CORRECTIONS FACILITY’ in faded yellow
words, he knows it is not a dream.
He remembers, although not with clarity, the day his
parents didn’t come home. He stayed up late that night.
Making an ungodly mess of the kitchen floor, he ate cereal
from the bag, before washing it down with a mug of lumpy
hot chocolate. Before, comforted by the faint odor of his
mother’s perfume from her soft sweater under his head, he
held his teddy and fell asleep on the couch.
When morning came, he was woken by the doorbell
ringing. Hoping to see their familiar faces, he rushed to the
window and looked out through the curtains.
A thin couple stood on the porch, a man and a woman.
And as the woman saw his movement at the window, she
looked up smiling, and waved. Down the stairs, and stretching
on his tippy toes to reach the latch, he opened the door to
them.
“William, good morning!” the man said cheerily, adorned
in a crisp pinstriped blue suit, with a matching tie and a white
high-collared shirt.
Crouching down to him, and giving a friendly little wave,
the woman smiled. “Hi there!” she said.
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She was pretty, like his mom, with her golden hair
loosely tied at the back and red lips that matched her long
sleeved suit jacket and elegant slim formed dress. But her eyes
were strange. Although in no way detracting from her beauty,
they were different; one with tones of green and blue like a
beautiful tropical fish, and the other, with a powdered gray
pupil and an iris of midnight black.
“Hi,” he replied, feeling a pang of caution and clutching
his teddy tighter.
“My friend and I are with the Vitruvian social services,”
the woman spoke again. “And today, we have some good news
for you!” Looking at Will with an air of expectation she
paused, as if waiting for him to respond in excitement. “Don’t
you want to know what it is?”
He remembered hearing his parents talk about them and
their strange eyes. About how glamorous and proper they
were, and how kind they all seemed. He remembered too
about how they weren't to be trusted. But they were not what
he had imagined, certainly much nicer than he expected.
“Are you, Kol?” he asked.
“Well aren’t you a funny one?!” she replied with a giggle.
“Of course we are dear, how else would we know where to
find you! But never mind that! Don’t you want to know what
the good news is? No?. . . Well, I’ll tell you anyway! Yesterday
your mommy and daddy were invited into beautiful Libertaria
on official business. Nothing for you to worry about of
course, boring grown up stuff mostly. But while you wait, it
means that you get to go all the way to the other side of
Neourbia and spend a few days in Boston! Isn’t that
wonderful! We have a special place there, just for kids just like
you.”
“Can’t I stay here till they come back?”
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“By yourself! Oh, no silly! Our job is to keep you safe.
And we certainly can’t do that here!” Wrinkling her nose in
distaste, she glanced over his shoulder into the hall. “But don’t
worry, where we’re taking you is a marvelous place – made by
the great architect himself, bless his generous soul. You’ll have
so much fun and make lots of friends. And of course,” she
continues, gesturing to the stuffed teddy in his arms, “you can
bring your friend Jeff there with you! Now, give me your hand
and let’s be off. The car is waiting.”
With a gentle calmness in her eyes and a warm smile in
the corner of her mouth, she offered her delicate hand, and
grabbing it, he followed her down the steps toward a gleaming
white vehicle parked on the street.
Curved and sleek with dark shaded windows, the rear
door was already open, but approaching a row of stern
Malleus soldiers that waited with their weapons raised at the
house, he stopped in his tracks. On top of eight slender
titanium legs with a metallic body littered by bulbous sensors,
a spidered machine stood behind them. And as its mounted
weapons and claws twitched and flickered in spasmodic
bursts, it watched his every move.
“Oh don’t worry about him!” the woman exclaimed, as
she noticed his hesitation. “A silly old Arakhna like him is only
interested in flies! You're not a fly are you?!
Will shook his head, and giving him a knowing grin as
she pulled him along, they continued to the vehicle.
“Mind your head now,” she said, as Will stepped in.
“Good morning William,” an automated voice rang out.
“Your destination today is the Milgram Academy. Please take a
seat and choose what you would like for entertainment on
your journey.”
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He remembered the softness of the plush fabric as he
sat down and the bright and cheerful images dancing across
the screens on the seat in front. But it was the sound he
remembered the most. And as the door began to close and
the harsh bark of the soldiers’ commands cracked like whips
in the air, he remembered the mechanical whir of robotic legs
as men and machine stormed up the driveway and disappeared
into the house.
* * *
With a shudder, the metallic band he is held within
begins moving upward. But with a jolt, it turns sideways to
slide parallel to the rows of the other captive bodies. Silently
picking up speed, hollow faces flicker past in front of him,
bloated and flared in the mechanical nest that coils around
their shriveled anatomies. With eyes closed, they almost seem
at peace. But then, as he sees terror and tears streaming down
a sunken face, his heart sinks, as one, not sleeping like the rest,
looks back.
A sudden bump rattles his body as his mechanized
captor stops and changes direction. Upward now, propelled
into the darkness above, he strains his neck to lift his head.
And as the momentum of the machine slows he passes up
into a room through the floor.
Rotated backward, blinded by a searing bright light, a
hatch slides closed beneath his feet. Faced by a long strip of
neon lights suspended from the ceiling, he flinches as a voice
echoes in his ears.
“Manning — William,” it announces. “Prisoner number
5-2-3-9-8, please confirm.”
“Copy, 52398,” a different voice resounds in response.
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“Disconnect, scrub, and discharge. He’s out of here.”
“Copy that.”
A masked face looms over him and a rubber gloved
hand on his forehead stretches his eyelids back. Blinded, a
burning sting of a bright red light flashes into his eyes.
“Welcome back. 52398. You are not forgotten.”
From behind, several metal arms extend around him
with claw-like appendages on their ends. Hovering over his
body in careful motion they examine him, first poking and
prodding before, with a candid chirp, he is engulfed in a mist
of frigid water. Shockwaves coursing through his bones, the
sounds of motors and machines whine shrill in the air as the
tubes in his skin are pulled free. With a wave of torment,
pressure turns to pain, and ripping at his back and stomach
with deliberate purpose the foreign bodies are wrenched from
his flesh. Desperate gurgles and screams involuntarily spewing
from his throat, every muscle and sinew spasms. And with
each twitch and tremor, he drifts further away.

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