Free Dead Space: Catalyst by Brian Evenson

looked around. A first sweep didn’t reveal his brother.
    “But,” said a reporter, perhaps the same one who had asked whatever the initial question was, “how can you afford not to?”
    Fischer remained unruffled. “We can afford to do a little of it,” he said, apparently thoughtfully. “But we do not have endless resources and so we have to focus them. As most of you know, we do have a team for the dome we are in today. We felt that this dome, as the largest dome, should be a priority.”
    Jensi kept scanning the crowd, more slowly this time, moving from face to face.
    “It is also the richest dome per capita,” stated another reporter.
    “That’s beside the point.”
    “But the poorer domes are not a priority,” said the second reporter. “That’s exactly the point.”
    “It is a sad thing,” said Councilman Fischer, “but we do have to make choices. We depend on citizens to let us know when they see signs of stress or potential indications of failure. Whenever they let us know, we do our best to correct the problem as quickly as possible. In this case, it’s not a governmental failure that’s the problem. It’s a failure on behalf of the citizenry. They should have been on this sooner.”
    A dull, dissatisfied rumble moved through the crowd, people turning to one another and whispering, and in that moment Jensi caught sight of Istvan. He was mostly hidden behind a large middle-aged woman, on the other side of the crowd, near the top of the steps, close to the councilman. He was standing motionless, his head down, and he remained that way even when the people around him were turning to one another to discuss something the councilman had said. But Jensi could tell by the tension of his neck and shoulders that he was as tautly wound as a spring.
    *   *   *
    Istvan was waiting for a sign, something that would tell him when to go, what to do next. He already knew what he would do, they had taught him, they had given him his purpose and explained to him what would happen when he did it, how funny it would be, but the question now was when . And they were not the ones that could tell him that. The world around him had to be the one to tell him that, a voice had to come, to signal to him, to show him its pattern and shape and draw him forward.
    They had suggested to him that there was no reason to hesitate. He had a purpose and so as soon as he saw his opportunity he should spring forward. But no, he was almost seeing a pattern but it wasn’t quite there yet. Something was missing. Someone had not felt it yet and was standing wrong, the lines could not be traced, the shadow man remained hidden, unspeaking. Or something else was just slightly out of place and needed to be adjusted. And yet it was not his task to adjust the pattern. No, his task was only to see it, and once he saw it, to let it call him forward to his purpose.
    He would wait. Would wait as long as he had to.
    Patience, he told himself. Patience.
    The man in front of him spoke on, answering questions but in ways that made no sense to Istvan. He pretended to be listening but he was not listening. He was watching and waiting. In his head he was saying the numbers, calling the pattern forward, reminding himself, and his voice, he realized now, was mumbling too, not too loud, not loud enough to be heard. But if the pattern did not come soon, he would, he knew, get louder and louder still.
    And then he caught out of the corner of his eye a flicker of motion and the pattern slipped into place and he saw the life beneath things rear its head just a little, a voice forming inside him, calling him forward to fulfill his purpose.
    *   *   *
    Jensi passed back out of the crowd and circled around to the other side, began cautiously working his way up the steps, trying not to cause a disturbance. He kept his eyes open for other security in the crowd. There was nobody obvious: either there was nobody or somebody was undercover. There was