Into the Manifold

Chapter Two: Delilah

"...are there any other places in nature, not in engineering, not in computers, not in things that we built, but in nature itself, is there a discussion in science about error correcting codes? It turns out there is one place and one place only that I have been able to identify and that's in evolution in genetics. And it's not that we think life is some kind of programmed simulation, it's because the universe itself...has to have feedback mechanisms that basically sustain a structure that propagates faithfully forward in time."

Dr. James Gates, Theoretical physicist, University of Maryland

The world was working against her, she was sure of it. Curtains of rain fell hard onto the streets, gurgling muck-black against the gutters. It hadn't occurred to her to bring an umbrella, even as the clouds hung low above the city, swallowing the tops of buildings. They were like a misty ceiling, casting back an orange glow of the street lamps below.  She only made it a few blocks before she watched them morph and swell. As though sensing her mission across the city, the clouds descended upon her. The orange glow of the city gave way to sheets of rain, as though her view of the world was being filtered through static. 

The jacket she held above her head did little to stop the onslaught. By the time she arrived at the apartment gate, she was drenched from head to toe. There was a dial pad mounted to the metal gate—a small rectangular device with a capacitive touch panel. It struggled to recognize her prodding as the rain cascaded down its surface. She stood there for several minutes, wiping the pad dry before desperately trying to type the code as fast she could move. Each time the pad displayed ERROR, she swore it would rain a little harder.

She cursed under her breath, wondering why even after this long in the area she had not remembered to bring an umbrella with her during the winter.

On the fifth try, the call went through.

"Godssake, Delilah — " his voice came through the speaker, muffled by the enormity of the rain, "What are you doing out there?"

"Let me in, Rachid."

"It's almost one in the morning, I was — "

"Rachid! It's raining."

He buzzed her in. She flew through the gate, slipping on the stairs, nearly clipping her chin on the railing. She raced up the stairs to his flat, finding Rachid standing in his doorway, still putting his glasses on. She walked past him and into the apartment.

"Shit, Delilah you're soaked."

She was surprised by the sight of his place—clothes strewn about, empty potato chip bags littering his couch.

"Yikes," she said, still trying to catch her breath.

"I didn't know I'd be having guests," he said, running around the room, picking up his clothes and shoving them into a hamper in the corner.

He tossed her a blanket from his couch. "You should warm up."

"Thanks," she said, hanging her drenched coat on a kitchen stool and wrapping the blanket around her. She continued to take stock of his room as he scrambled around, moving things out of sight in a feeble attempt at straightening up the room.

Eventually, Rachid settled onto another stool opposite her in the kitchen. He removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. They looked swollen.

"You like shit," Delilah said, "Have you been sleeping?

He shrugged, "Clearly you aren't."

Rachid was notoriously particular. Everything had to be in its right place. Photographs, furniture, each bottle of various cleaning liquid—there wasn't a belonging of his that had ever disappeared. He could recall each location without hesitation. This trait guided everything he did in his life, from the mundane daily tasks at home to their most pressing matters at the company they ran together. It was his best and worst trait. She often felt his pickiness for precision was a colossal waste of time. But it also meant he never gave up until he could right a wrong.