Latin@ Rising

by Matthew Goodwin

  She felt like a child bride on the day of an arranged marriage and she needed to run.

  Cary had no plan. She frantically threw some clothes and all her money into a backpack, gathered all of the portfolios she’d naively been working on since the ninth grade and crammed them in. She picked up her phone, hesitated for a second, then turned it off, and tossed it in her closet under a pile of dirty laundry. She wanted to message Ruth, tell her she was coming, but any electronic communication would be easily tracked by assiduous government familiars whose members numbered in the thousands.

  Her heart pounded in her chest as she thought of an exit plan. She was surrounded by family, her best bet would be to make her way to her great grandmother’s room, because it had its own side door so Mimi could come and go as she pleased. She would run through the neighbor’s yard to the corner of the block and start walking to Ruth’s house, careful to avoid any family member, including her father, who would be on his way home from the store. Good plan!

  She peered out into the hall, backpack over her shoulder. When it was all clear, she dashed into her great grandmother’s room and quietly closed the door behind her.

  Suddenly, the blood in her veins froze when she saw the old lady perched in her recliner like a fat pigeon on a wire, the blue glow from the wraparound TV screen gave her an avian iridescence.

  “Mimi?” she said softly. It’s what she’d always called the current matriarch of the family, even her own kids called her Mimi instead of Mami or Mamá. Mimi didn’t respond. She was fast asleep, snoring softly. Cary took a deep breath to settle her nerves, but also to take in some of her great grandmother’s particular fragrance. She always smelled of honey and violets and fried food and Cary would miss her profoundly, probably most of all.

  She tiptoed like a cartoon to the door that led outside, but her eye caught a gleam on her great grandmother’s nightstand. It was her little shrine to La Caridad del Cobre. The saint’s brown, porcelain face surrounded by the resplendent gold of her dress and mantel stood out like a sunspot. An impressive halo arched over her head and shoulders with a blazing corona. A solitary squat, white candle flickered inadequately before her. Caridad. Cary had been named after this little doll, and Mimi had named her.

  Now that her mind was racing with a pronounced sense of doom, the name became pregnant with meaning. Caridad? Yes, she was the embodiment of charity for these people, the living, breathing, cybernetically-wired patron saint of the Garcia-Martinez family! Even her nickname became a nasty portent! Was she expected to carry her entire family forever? Intercede for them? The thought made her want to smash the altar to pieces.

  “¿Te vas?”

  Cary wheeled around at her great grandmother’s hoarse voice. She was panting with built-up rage, her shoulders flexing, but she steadied her voice. “No, Mimi, I’m just going to drop off some things at Ruth’s house.”

  The old lady was eighty-seven, but still sharp; the look on her heavily lined face said, Do you think yo soy una come mierda or something? But instead she reached out her arms and said, “Dame un beso y un abraso, cariño. Felicidades.”

  Cary cautiously set her pack by the door and leaned in to give her Mimi one last hug and kiss. Proximity allowed that powerful, maternal scent to invade her nostrils and grip her chest. Without warning, Cary dissolved into a puddle of tears on Mimi’s large bosom. Her great grandmother was not a slight woman; she was sturdy and big-boned with a helmet of chemically-treated, burgundy hair that deflected other people’s opinions — being stubborn was a family trait — and Cary clung to her like a frightened chick under her protective wings.

  “You’re scared?” Mimi asked in English. She had never fully trusted the alien language, but she had started making an effort with her great grandchildren, especially in times of distress.

  “Yes!”

  “It is very scary.” She patted the back of her head, massaging her neck. “Responsibility. Sacrifice.”

  “I don’t want to sacrifice myself! I don’t know who I am yet, who I want to become. I feel like I have so much potential …”

  “You will find a way to be yourself, it will be hard — very hard — but you are strong like me. Tenemos el mismo carácter, tu y yo. All those people out there,” she said, jutting toward the rest of the house with her chin. “They are small. You will devour them, you will see.”

  Mimi didn’t really understand. It wasn’t a matter of character. It was all transcranial magnetic stimulation and neural signal decoding. It was intricate aggregating software running in place of soul and metal and plastic embedded in flesh.

  Mimi cooed and rubbed Cary’s back in pacifying circular motions. “I left the girl I was at fifteen in Cuba. I had un noviesito, you know — his name was Fernandito — he was skinny and ugly, with big teeth, but I loved him and would write very passionate poems for him. I wanted to be a poet. I think I loved writing more than I loved Fernandito.” She clucked to herself. “But then I came here and I started to work in a factory sewing socks. I married your great grandfather, had six kids, made sure everyone ate, worked and studied, but at night I would steal an hour or two and write that ugly, skinny boy some love poems.”

  “I won’t have an hour or two. We have family on three different continents across whole hemispheres, from Spain to California. There will be no time for me, there will be no me.” Cary shivered.

  Mimi gave her a reproachful frown, as if she had bared her soul — In English, no less! — and this idiot girl had understood nothing. “Aye, niña, no exageres! We don’t have family en la China!”

  Cary smiled despite herself. And it was true. There were still time zones free of the cloying Garcia-Martinez horde. Could there possibly be a time when all of her family in the world were asleep and not actively transmitting? She would have to do the math.

  Mimi stroked her shoulder gently. “If you want to go, go. I won’t say anything. It is your life and your decision. You make it.”

  “But the family …”

  “I will handle them,” she said sternly, and Cary believed her.

  In a surge of excitement, Cary kissed her great grandmother and scrambled to her feet, slinging her pack over her shoulder in one swift move. She felt lighter than ever. She felt free. She took a step toward the door, but turned, without thinking, and asked, “What will they do about a familiar?” She regretted the question the instant it left her lips.

  Mimi waved that away as if it were no longer the girl’s concern. “No sé. They will probably pressure your prima Victoria to do it.”

  Vicky? The girl was only thirteen, blithe and unsuspecting. She was also kind of an airhead and would probably evaporate under the intense heat of the family’s collective brainwaves. Could she condemn a younger cousin to oblivion, just to save herself? She might never know the woman she would become, but Cary knew instantly that she wasn’t that kind of person now. She made the decision to drop her pack. “I won’t go.”

  Mimi nodded sagaciously, satisfied in the certainty that she had chosen the right name for her great granddaughter eighteen years ago. “Listen to me, I don’t understand all the technology of esta cosa.” She swirled her arthritic finger around her head to simulate the headband. “But I know that as of today tu mandas aquí! You can make the rules. Find a way to save at least a little bit of yourself. Dale, yo te apoyo.”

  She was right. As the familiar she made all the decisions for the family. She could set the terms. So what did she value? What did she want? She needed to think fast.

  Cary’s father cried the entire way to the clinic. He apologized once while they were stopped at a red light, but when it turned green he continued driving, as if he were just taking her to an out-of-state college instead of her execution, and as far as he was concerned, that’s exactly what he was doing — getting his daughter to college, no matter what!

  Her mom was dead silent in the back seat, wringing her hands the way she did while waiting up late for Cary to get home. Only this time she wouldn�
��t be coming home, Cary thought bitterly. The drive felt eternal and torturous, but it gave her plenty of time to think.

  An inkling of an idea had started to bloom as they pulled in to their destination. The clinic was nicer than Cary had expected. It looked more like a spa than a place where they performed minor brain surgery. The familiar business was booming, apparently. They admitted her quickly, and her parents hovered as a nurse with a bald head and huge biceps gently helped her onto a gurney and administered the anesthesia. “You have a few minutes before this kicks in,” he said. “The doctor will be here shortly.”

  “You need to buy more headbands,” Cary said, the second the IV was in place. She knew this was the time her parents would be the most vulnerable. When the doctor arrived, they would be kicked out of the room. These were their last few minutes with their only daughter.

  “What? Why?” her father asked, startled.

  “I want to add more of the family to the network, more kids.”

  The doctor walked in, but waited patiently by the door.

  “Those things are too expensive and we already had to buy fifty four of them, there’s at least that many kids in the family.”

  “You don’t have to get them for the really little ones, just like ten-years-old and up. I’m serious about this.”

  “Why?” her mother finally spoke up. To her credit, she did look like she was trying to understand, for once.

  “Everyone in the network would be an adult. I’m thinking including some of the kids would balance me out — I’m half kid myself—besides, I’ve been researching this and the more diverse the group is, in age and education and gender, the more accurate the system is. Is that true?” she asked the doctor, and her parents looked back at the vacant-faced woman in confusion and supplication.

  “That’s right,” the doctor, a plain, middle-aged Indian woman, said and smiled beatifically. Of course, she was a familiar, Cary realized. It was the only way she’d get a job like this. She was probably maintaining people in India or Trinidad or both. The doctor was Cary’s future and she got the odd desire to sketch her.

  “If you don’t promise, I won’t consent.” Cary said casually, there was no need to put any heat into her words, the doctor’s presence made her statement threat enough.

  “Coño, Cary.” Her father looked pained. He ran a hand roughly through his thinning hair, unable to think clearly. This wasn’t the emotional good bye he had readied himself for. Well, too bad.

  “Okay,” her mother sighed suddenly. “We can probably buy twenty more, and that’s it.” She turned to Cary’s father. “Tell Yovany to go back and get twenty more headbands. We’ll pay him back.”

  Her dad eyed the doctor, but gave a jerky nod.

  “Okay,” Cary said, deflating. The drowsiness had begun to take over. “I love you.”

  The procedure was over in no time at all. When she was out cold, Dr. Rao drilled a tiny hole in through the top of her skull, like the opening of an anthill, and injected the miniature device. Once in place, the implant sprouted artificial dendrites, branching outward like a micro family tree. They tangled with her neurons, touching different parts of her brain. It laced itself thoroughly and then the doctor sealed the hole with synthetic bone paste.

  When Cary awoke, she was only a bit queasy, and that was probably due more to the anesthesia and her nerves than the actual procedure. With the infinite imperturbability of a bodhisattva, Dr. Rao reported that everything had gone smoothly and that Cary could go home.

  Outside, the sky crackled an electric blue and the pitiful breeze smelled of rain and asphalt. Cary’s stomach churned. There must have been a torrential downpour while she was inside, but now everything was bright and soaked and hot. The bulky nurse winked at her as he wheeled her to the car and whispered, “Easier than getting a boob job, no?”

  Cary half-nodded, still in a daze. She would know soon enough, though, as her cousin, Karen, had gotten one a year ago.

  The party was bigger and more elaborate than her quinces, and much like that particular ordeal, she arrived after it had already started. Everyone clapped and cheered as her parents helped her into the house like an invalid and sat her in a makeshift throne at the center of the room. Beer and salsa music flowed freely around her. She thought it rude, that some of the guests were already wearing their transcranial headbands like party hats, is if they couldn’t wait to snuff her out.

  Ruth showed up right when they were going to start singing happy birthday and cut the cake. She looked scared, like an unsuspecting European stumbling into the middle of a Mayan ritual sacrifice. Seeing her, made the sorrow and nausea well up all over again; Cary clenched her teeth and waved her over.

  “You did it?” she asked, tentatively.

  “Yeah. I almost ran away with you, though.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Cary shrugged, “I couldn’t.”

  “That’s fucked up.”

  Too late for all that now, Cary thought. “I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to ask you a favor.”

  “Anything.” Ruth kneeled before her and clasped her clammy hands, as if she were going to propose marriage in front of all her family on her birthday.

  Cary inhaled and exhaled to steady herself; she had a much less romantic proposal in mind. “I want you to join the family network.”

  “What?” Ruth let go of her hands and backed away. Cary wasn’t prepared for the clear hint of revulsion twisting her friend’s face.

  “Hear me out. Please! I can help you, support you, give you a chance in this world and you can leave the network whenever you like. You can come to school with me. No loans!”

  “I don’t care about that stuff!”

  “I know, but I’m trying to shore myself up here.” Cary wanted to cry, but the tears would no longer come. She wondered if she had been brain-damaged somehow. “I’ve added a lot of the kids, trying to average in some of their raw potential, but you … You know me so well … I don’t know if any of me will survive when we synch these things up, but if you’re a part of it, some of me will — a lot of me will, I think. I just need you there for a little while until I can figure things out.”

  “That’s not going to work, Cary. Look around at all these people. I’ll just be a rounding error to the sum total.” Ruth was crying now, crying for both of them. They were a bubble of grief at the center of a raging, celebratory hurricane.

  “It’s all I’ve got.”

  Someone was banging on a beer bottle with a fork and making a speech, thanking Cary for her selflessness and bravery. In her periphery, people were putting on their headbands, powering them up, and synching them. Cary’s mouth went dry, her fingers cold, reaching desperately for Ruth.

  Her great grandmother, Mimi, leaned in and dropped a head-band into Ruth’s lap. “Coge, niña, no pienses mas.” Then she came around, kissed Cary on the crown of her head, right where the implant had gone in and puttered away.

  Ruth shook her head in disgust. She took Cary’s hands, kissing them. “I love you,” she said almost angrily and managed, with trembling fingers, to slip the thing on.

  When the end came, it wasn’t as an abrupt, violent supernova of information, like Cary feared. It was more like a slow and incremental sunrise. With each person to enter the network, the world grew brighter and the transient being that had been allowed to exist for only a brief moment in time, receded and faded like a shadow, until only the sun remained.

  The vast, widely-distributed intelligence that emerged—Caridad Garcia-Martinez — began to see her sprawling family, not as a collection of individuals, but as luminous rays emanating from her core. This realization dazzled her. She was, in fact, the sun. She watched/felt the lancing rays vector out, strengthening her, aggrandizing her with each person that came online.

  When the brilliance of this novel reality subsided fractionally, she understood something that wasn’t in any of the research the little shadow had read. The flow of information moved both ways —
Of course it did! — she could reach out with electromagnetic fingers and nudge her component parts in subtle, but significant ways. They were one, after all. All the waste and inefficiencies and poor decisions of their messy lives suddenly burned away like clouds and she could work at correcting the wayward trajectories of her many beams of light.

  Caridad was running calculations to do just that, when something else drew her near-omniscient attention: a blemish had appeared amidst all the glory, like an ugly, little sunspot, a freckle. This triggered an association cascade that rippled through at least three different minds in the link. Her vision, through seventy six pairs of eyeballs, focused on the conundrum — Ruth Ann Tremper — it was the only part of her that didn’t shine.

  Another association cascade, this one much more turbulent, like a roiling solar storm. Then, understanding: this particular ray was creating a feedback loop, like a great arch of plasma swerving and crashing back into the sun, penetrating deep into its fiery heart. Interesting.

  “Are you in there?” Ruth’s whisper carried as much mass as a photon.

  Caridad Garcia-Martinez smiled magnanimously from the center of herself and Ruth smiled back, her expression fraught, tears still streaming down her face.

  The algorithm churned, curiosity flared, and Caridad peered through Ruth’s eyes to better understand the question. She saw a serene, young girl smiling contently at her. More memories tallied from all across her being produced an output: Cary. This was the core that had fused all of these tiny, zipping, separate bits into a substantial, cohesive whole.

  After a while, Ruth buried her face in her hands, blocking the view of the girl. “If you’re in there give me a sign,” she demanded into her palms. From all around the room, Caridad watched Ruth flicker with fury and desperation, prostrated before the radiant brown-faced girl.

  Using the processing power of seventy six interconnected brains to search for the appropriate response, Caridad began to trace the query in lines of light and code pulled from each of her components parts — some of them knew Cary very well and others barely at all — but the girl started to take shape.