Twelve, 13 January

A black and scarlet dronikus

Jan 13, 2025

Dronikus, a novel set on a burning planet called Earth.

The Smiling Rip van Winkle

Chesa’s face was a few inches away from his as she inserted contact lenses into his eyes. He looked at her face as best he could, trying to picture it without the Lumpyface. He wondered what colour her eyes were behind her lenses.

‘Hold still.’

He felt her breath on his skin. He was doing his best to hold still, fixing his eyes on hers as she worked.

‘They haven’t really perfected the surveillance tech on the iris because it is often really difficult to get a clear image. Hey, hold still, my friend.’

‘Sorry.’

‘They’ve worked on getting the micro-dronikus to get close to the eyes and shoot multiple images and this seems to be working for them. But even so, they’re well and truly fucked. We’ve got hundreds of thousands – or probably millions, by now – of fake irises, just like these ones, being worn around about, completely muddying their database.’ She laughed. ‘And think of when the two eyes don’t match, not to mention gender confusions.’

‘Who’s “we”?’ Zola asked.

‘Huh?’

‘Who’s got millions of fake replicas?’

‘What do you mean? All the people who don’t want to be put in the data bases. Most everyone has got two eyes, you may have noticed.’

‘No, no, I mean who are the people you work with, who are standing up at RePO? Is it an organisation?’

‘Hey, Mr Rip van Winkle – but I suppose you are a real Rip van Winkle, aren’t you? There, done. Blink a bit. Move your eyes about. Normal vision? Cool.’ She held up a mirror for him, just like he was in a barber shop. ‘Blue eyes suit you.’

‘I would have liked a shade darker,’ he said, half seriously.

‘Next time, handsome.’

Zola felt himself blush at this. He was not used to banter nor to flirtation. Her smell, her presence, her movement held him transfixed, like a kid watching a kitten at play. He had not felt this unexpected warmth-in-the-belly-feeling for a long time, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted it, as nice as it was.

He suppressed these jumbled thoughts and feelings. He stood up wandered around the ‘hospital’, with its beds and cabinets and instruments. He said: ‘How many Lumpyfaces have you done?’

She was busy arranging her instruments and ignored him.

‘Chesa, who are the people standing up with you?’

‘Hey, too many questions Mr Zola Pandoke, aka the Smiling Rip van Winkle.’ She grabbed his hand: ‘Come, let’s go.’

‘Where’re we going?’

Zola and Chesa walked through city passages and laneways at dusk, working their way through the order and the chaos of the moving crowds and the makeshift street settlements that were taking over the pavements. Zola walked quite a few paces behind, keeping a mindful eye on her. With so many people squeezed together it was sometimes difficult to move and one feared where one placed one’s foot, lest it trample a child or sink into a fetid puddle. Packing cases, boxes, plastic containers all gave witness to thousands of new arrivals crammed into narrow spaces not intended for habitation. Smells of cooking – thick, spicy aromas of country foods – came and went, overlaying those of shit and decomposing rubbish. Despite Zola’s local dress, his height, his bearing, his demeanour showed that he was an outsider. Wherever he turned, he saw eyes looking back at him – kids inquisitive or entreating, adults solicitous, aggressive or simply passive, vacant.

In amongst the hustle and flurry Zola saw dronikus buzzing around, some fly-sized, some larger, the size of bats. A small one came close to him – probably imaging his face – but soon buzzed off to the next person. Groups of rators stood on street corners, still as lamp posts. Even though their ‘eyes’ were hidden as they were behind black Glastic screens, Zola was sure they were registering whatever moved in the street.

Chesa unexpectedly turned and ducked into a doorway. Zola continued past and stopped a little way down the lane and made a show of inspecting a stall of cheap electronic goods. A number of kids began pestering him, offering items for him to buy. Zola ignored them, turning his back and making a show of looking at an ancient telephone device. A small boy managed to manoeuvre himself under Zola’s arm and thrust his closed hand under Zola’s eyes. He opened the hand just enough for Zola to glimpse an inert black and scarlet dronikus, about the size of the boy’s hand.

‘You want?’

Zola felt a surge of excitement: ‘How much?’

‘500.’

‘I’ll give you 100.’

The boy shook his head and made to move off.

‘120.’

‘250.’

Zola pulled notes from a pocket deep inside his cloak and stowed the dronikus into that place. The boy nodded, grabbed the notes and slipped away. Zola looked around nonchalantly. No ‘live’ dronikus appeared to have witnessed the transaction.

But then he felt some movement behind him, a hand took a firm hold of his. Panic took hold of him, and he swung round ready to fight or take flight. He was much relieved to see that it was Chesa. She closed his fingers around a small device and whispered two words to him: ‘Follow it’. Then, like the boy before her, she slipped away to be swallowed by the crowd.

Once his heartbeat had returned to normal he fitted the Eyeto device to his ear.

‘Hello Zola. Start moving,’ said the voice in his earpiece. “Move fast to the intersection up ahead and turn right. Resume at a pace in keeping with the people around you but keep on moving, swiftly. You’ve got 3.5 minutes to get to your destination. Go.’

He followed the instructions, striding swiftly while blending in with the people around him. After crossing a few streets and rounding corners, he was led down a flight of stairs into a cellar, arriving as the device counted down the remaining seconds. He made it down the steps and through a door as two large men slammed it shut behind him.

Hey, what's that sound?

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