The Crying Machine. Greg Chivers

done, come see me down at Yusuf’s tonight. We can have a proper conversation. I’ll be there ’til seven o’clock.’

      The place is empty apart from the regulars when I get in. Yusuf’s watching war porn on the news feeds. One look is enough to tell you tourist season won’t be happening any time soon – Machine crackdowns on insurgents in France and Norway, Sino-Sovs still getting pushed back on the Kazakh front. He finally drags his eyes off the screen when the picture cuts from footage to a talking head.

      ‘Hey, Levi! Did you—’

      ‘Don’t say it! I know what you’re gonna say and I don’t need to hear it. It’s under control. That’s all you need to know!’

      ‘I was just going to ask if you got the whisky.’

      ‘Yes! Yes, I got your whisky, OK? And yes, I went to the Mission. I did exactly as you said. There, OK, I said it. Happy now?’ I know he’s just pushing my buttons and I shouldn’t give him the satisfaction but sometimes I can’t help it. I mean, it’s one thing to give the guy a little excitement in his life when he’s stuck behind the bar all day, but you’d have to be a saint to put up with his I-told-you-so shit.

      ‘So …’

      ‘She’s coming.’

      ‘When?’

      ‘Tonight.’

      ‘I guess we’ll see.’

      ‘Yeah, I guess we will.’

      By the time she walks in, its twenty to eight and Yusuf’s already collected on the little bet we made about whether she’d show. The robe’s gone, and she looks different, dark blond hair combed back like a man’s, I guess so she gets less attention, but she’s wearing those weird tight clothes again. Maybe they’re not so strange if you’re from Europe. I don’t know – we used to get tourists, now we get refugees, but she doesn’t look like either.

      ‘Good to see you, babe, but you know, punctuality is important in this line of work.’

      ‘Yeah, sorry about that. I brought you an orange.’

      There’s an orange on the table and I don’t know where it came from. I didn’t even see her fingers move. In those clothes there’s nowhere she could hide one of Fat Saul’s big Jaffas. This could still be a good day for Levi Peres.

       6.

       Silas

      A shining stalactite of drool extends from the lip of the broken being in front of him. In a minute it’ll break and land on the office rug, which supposedly belonged to a Persian King: Cambyses or something. At moments like this, his father’s words come back to haunt him. The old man used to say: ‘The problem with money is that you have to earn it.’ After a lifetime spent trying to prove him wrong, this moment serves as a dismal affirmation. Meeting the customer is perhaps the harshest of the many unforgiving practicalities of business, and today it manifests in the form of three figures of indeterminate gender filling Silas’s office. Metal obliterates almost all trace of the people they used to be, sculpted into shining limbs and crania, leaving only the merest patches of exposed flesh necessary for cutaneous respiration. The nearest one, the dribbler, has taken a step further to abandon his humanity; sludgy nutrient sacs on his back are proof he has overcome the tyranny of desire for food, but the feeding tube running into his mouth prevents his lips meeting completely. Hence the carpet issue.

      Of all the many stripes of loon who form the patchwork fabric of the city, none irritate Silas as effectively as the Cult of the Machine, but personal preferences cannot be permitted to intrude on business, not when these sums of money are at stake. If his visitors notice his carefully veiled animosity, they give no sign. An inability to perceive the emotions of others is a weakness that almost always afflicts those who consider themselves superior, and the Mechanicals are no exception. They glory in their semi-synthetic endocrine and lymphatic systems, crudely re-engineered to interface with their creaking prosthetics. Anyone with an ounce of self-worth would permit only as much intrusion into their body as is necessary for the essentials of communication and medical care, but the Mechanicals would have you believe that slaving your nervous system to a Korean-built micro-processor in a box at the base of your skull somehow makes you more than human, rather than less. Their very presence here, in his office, gives the lie to their bluster. If they’d attained any Machine-like detachment, they’d sit back and wait for delivery, but no, they’re worried. A skilled observer can discern the signs; it’s just a different kind of body language. Real people fidget or mess their hair. These damaged appliances emit heat. The dribbler speaks first.

      ‘We want you to bring forward delivery of the device.’

      The feeding tube gives the poor thing a lisp. Manners dictate Silas endeavour to look it in the eye. The oval face is pale and veined from tissue rejection and the steady diet of immunosuppressants taken to counter the body’s response to contamination by metal limbs and digits. The reality of cheap, backstreet augmentation is something the Cult doesn’t show to potential recruits, but progression depends on physical demonstrations of commitment, and the faith doesn’t pay for new arms for the rank and file. If they survive to reach middle management, they all look like this one, give or take a tube. It won’t have long left in its current form; it’ll either ‘ascend’ and be admitted to the factory-labs of Europe by its masters, where they’ll remove the last vestiges of human flesh and graft its electronically preserved consciousness into a bio-engineered form within an exoskeleton of shining metal, or it will die of something resembling AIDS. The Machines who inspire this worship are an abomination, a wrong turn humanity might have avoided in a better world, but their power is more real than any god’s, and their ersatz faith certainly incentivizes the workers.

      Silas shrugs. ‘You know the schedule we’re on. The job entails expenses. If you want me to stick to the dates, I need you to cover my operating costs.’

      ‘It is yours. You should take it and give it to us.’

      ‘We’ve discussed this. The Antikythera Mechanism is not mine, it belongs to the city.’

      ‘But you could take it. Give it to us now. We will pay you more.’

      This is where difficulties arise. The Machine Cult are decidedly less than human when it comes to acknowledging such minutiae of existence as holding down a job. You could view that as evidence of the changes their body-modification has wrought upon their minds, although Silas rather suspects they haven’t changed at all – the people who inflict this upon themselves are the ones who couldn’t cope with all the messy uncertainties real life entails. The extinction of flesh reduces the uncomfortable variables of self, but the external world is harder to control. Reality is stubborn and unforgiving, and today Silas is its avatar.

      ‘Please, there is a schedule. Deviating from it will bring trouble none of us want.’

      The taller, healthier one in the middle of the trio pipes up. ‘Another two million. Bring it to us tomorrow.’ The end of the last word disappears in a wet gurgle. They are not flexible thinkers – they struggle to let go of an idea once they’ve latched onto it. The mistake would be to think they are stupid. The one at the back, not talking, is doing a reasonably surreptitious survey of the security arrangements. The slow, lateral turns of his head suggest he has some sort of scanning augmentation built in around his eyes, perhaps even total replacements. If they’ve received surveillance technology from their patrons in the West, any locally available counter-measure will be useless.

      ‘I have removed the Antikythera device from public display as a precursor to our enterprise, but it is not on these premises. If you wish to withdraw from the arrangement previously agreed …’ Silas stresses the word any sane human being would recognize as significant. ‘… you should feel free to make your own arrangements. After all, no money has changed