Future Chronicles Special Edition

by Samuel Peralta

  The med bot doesn’t even look at me or Eli—it just removes the two med patch monitors floating over Mrs. B’s skin. Which, for some reason, trips alarm through my body. Before I can ask what it’s doing, it places another med patch on the inside of her wrist. It must be injecting something into her, because she starts to come around.

  Eli hurries to his mom’s side, across from the bot, and I hover behind him, making sure Mrs. B sees her son first. She blinks open her eyes and frowns as she struggles up to sitting. The med bot must have ordered the head of the bed to rise—at least, I didn’t see Eli do anything. Once she’s sitting up, the med bot speaks.

  “Agatha Brighton, your diagnosis report is complete.” The thing finally looks at Eli and me. “Do you wish to have your diagnosis shared with Elijah Brighton and Cyrus Kowalski or would you prefer to receive it in private?”

  Oh no. I try to tell myself this is standard operating procedure for the bot. Eli’s hand finds his mom’s and grips hard. Mrs. B. looks even more pale.

  “Please, just tell us,” she says.

  “You have been diagnosed with a rare form of lymphoma.” It’s voice is flat, no emotion.

  A ringing starts in my ears. Cancer. No, no, no.

  “There is no cure for this form of lymphoma that does not violate the laws regarding genetic technologies. Standard treatments have been scheduled. Your one-year survival rate is estimated at five percent.”

  “Five percent?” Mrs. B’s voice is a bewildered whisper, but it cuts through me like a knife. Eli’s grip on her hand loosens, and he clutches the edge of the bed instead. I steady him with my hand on his back, but I can’t speak at all. All the air has been sucked out of the room.

  She’s going to die.

  “Transport to your housing unit has been arranged,” the bot says.

  The room feels like it’s moving under my feet.

  Mrs. B. still looks confused. Like she’s not quite sure what’s happening. “So, I can go home now?” she asks thickly. She barely sounds like herself.

  “Yes,” it responds. “Please return for standard treatments. Your household bot has been informed of the treatment schedule. Your chit allowance has been adjusted for appropriate food allotments and access to the dispensary and appropriate radiative treatment facilities. Do you have any questions?”

  “Questions?” Eli blurts out. He’s shaking, but the rage hasn’t even gotten hold of him yet. Not like it will. I know him. He’s going to explode with this.

  The bot ignores him, still focused on Eli’s mom. “If you have no questions, the transport will await your departure.”

  “I have no questions.” Mrs. B’s voice is mechanical and flat, just like the bot.

  It turns and strolls from the room.

  And like that, the ascenders and their bots have disposed of Eli’s mom like so much trash—just another lump of organic tissue that no longer serves their purposes. The anger boiling in my body wells up to choke me. A red haze clouds my vision. Eli’s shaking has stilled—in fact, he’s as stone-cold as a deactivated bot. I can’t get any words out, but Mrs. B. is already moving. She’s getting up from her bed, like she’s ready to walk right out of the hospital.

  Eli is frozen, so I hurry around to help her. “There’s… there’s no rush, Mrs. B.” God, I’m going to cry right in front of her, if I don’t shut up.

  Eli’s mom feels so frail in my grasp as she teeters toward the bathroom. “I have to get dressed, Cyrus. It’s time to leave.”

  “Mrs. B…” But I don’t have any words, just tears, and she doesn’t need to see those.

  She pats my arm when we reach the bathroom, like she’s shooing me away. “A little privacy, Cyrus. If you don’t mind.”

  I let her go into the bathroom by herself. The door closes. I hear a pounding, soft and rhythmic against the thin metallic sheet… it goes on, a half-dozen times, and then stops. I want to go in to help her, but I can’t. My helplessness freezes me in place… until I hear Eli make a sound that’s half sob, half sucked-in breath. His face is flushed and splotchy, like his rage is finally reaching his brain. He slowly turns toward the door, murder on his face, like he’s going to charge after the med bot and dismantle it, gear by gear. Which will only have a police bot scraping him off the floor.

  I lurch to his side and grab him in a hug that stops him from going anywhere. “She’s going to be all right,” I say, losing my battle with the tears. He shakes his head and struggles in my hold. I could keep my grip on him if I wanted, but I don’t have the heart for it. I let him shove me away. He doesn’t make a run for the door. Instead, he shuffles around the room, mechanical and stiff, gathering up the few things his mom brought—a hairbrush for her long, blond hair. A bracelet. Her ancient phone.

  I watch my best friend—a guy I love like a brother—stumble through the shock of this. My hatred of the ascenders reaches a peak of loathing I didn’t think possible. We’re nothing to them. Nothing. But to Eli, his mom is his entire world. They have no right to take that from him.

  From both of us.

  My hatred hardens into a knot of decision. I don’t care if it’s illegal. I don’t give a damn what the ascenders would do if they found out.

  I’m not going to let Eli’s mom die.

  * * *

  I manage to get them both home—Mrs. B goes straight to bed. I had to carry her the last leg into the apartment and her bedroom. She protested the whole way, but she was just so weak… and she fell asleep almost as soon as she hit the pillow. Back in the main room, Eli isn’t much better. He’s staring at his easel with a blank look. There’s not even a canvas on it.

  “Let me get you something to eat,” I say to him.

  He doesn’t respond. I’m waiting for him to explode. But he’s just sitting there, staring at nothing. Somehow, that’s worse.

  “Dude, just… let me get you something.” I don’t want to leave him like this, but I’ve got to get moving. I try putting a hand on his shoulder, hoping I can bring him out his shock just for a moment… he shrugs off my hand and turns away. Then, without a word, he curls up in his seat, arms locked around his knees, head buried in them. His shoulders shake.

  He doesn’t need me watching him cry.

  “My phone’s on now,” I say to his back. “Call me if you need anything.”

  Then I snag the bag of Mrs. B’s stuff from the floor where Eli dropped it on the way in. It still has the hairbrush in it. I don’t know how much I’ll need, so I just bring the whole bag.

  I take one last look at Eli and head out the door.

  My grandpa’s apartment—now mine—is just across the hall. I go straight to his bedroom, which I haven’t been inside since the burial. I stumble to a stop before I get to the closet, pulled up short by the sight of a med patch lying next to the bed. I thought everything had been cleared out when the bots came to take away his body. Suddenly, my anger boils over. I stride to the bedside, grab the med patch, and throw it to the floor where I stomp it flat. There’s not much to it, just a circuit and an empty dispenser, but it makes a satisfying crunch under the heel of my boot. A small green residue oozes from it.

  I am so sick of it all—sick of the ascenders, sick of the bots, sick of the trap of rock-bottom living they dole out to us. Half the kids in the projects don’t even make it as far as Eli and me—most of them end up blissed-out on Seven or brain-fried on virtuals. Eli’s one of the few I’ve seen do something with his talents—he paints, like his mom. And he’s getting good at it, too. He might be able to make a trade of it soon. If his mom doesn’t die and suck away all the life that’s left in him. Because I know Eli—and he’s not going to make it without her.

  And I need them both more than I want to admit.

  I scrape the green ooze off my boot by scuffing it on the floor, then I grab a pillowcase from the bed. The bag of Mrs B’s things goes in first, then I shuffle over to my grandpa’s closet. I feel bad about looting his things, but I need chits for this, and I already spent all
the ones he gave me on the burial. I couldn’t risk a priest—the ascenders long ago banned any kind of religious ceremonies, and the police bots are everywhere—but I know it was part of his religion to be buried, not cremated. I’ve never shared his beliefs, but I respected him for having them—if for no other reason than the ascenders didn’t want him to.

  I smile grimly at the relics in his closet—statues and candles and a bunch of little cards with people on them. Trading cards for the saints, he called them. Which makes me huff a short laugh that’s just bringing up tears again, so I stop. This stuff is mostly legal, as long as it’s not part of an organized church worship. It’s the thick gold-leafed book titled Holy Bible that’s a first-class felony. I stuff it in the pillowcase and throw in the rest for good measure. I don’t know how much I can get for them, but I don’t think my grandpa would mind. Not if he knew what it was for.

  The tram ride out to Riley’s shop is unusually tense—only because I know what I’m carrying. I’m in luck that Riley’s there when I arrive.

  “Hey,” he says, barely looking up from his handheld screen. I don’t know what he’s watching, but Riley’s not a big talker.

  “Hey, man.” I cross the floor quickly.

  My speed makes him look up. That and the bag I heave onto the glass case. “Whatcha got there?” he asks.

  “Stuff I need to turn into chits.” I start to pull out the little stuff and set it on the counter. “Eli’s mom is sick. I need to get her some meds.”

  “Sick?” Riley has the decency to set down the screen. “That’s too bad. What kind of meds are we talking?” His wrinkles gather more intensely around his eyes—Riley’s not as old as my grandpa or anything, but the business has worn years into him. I know he’s thinking I’m after Seven or some kind of neuro-relief meds, both of which are illegal but also common on the black market. But what I want is much worse.

  “Gen tech,” I say as calmly as I can. “A cure for lymphoma.”

  His eyes fly open. Then he brushes off me and my bag of stuff, turning back to pick up his screen. “Get out of here, kid.”

  “Riley, please.” I bring out the Holy Bible, and that catches his eye. “This has got to fetch something.”

  He scowls at me, but he’s still eyeing the relic. “I haven’t stayed in operation all these years by being an idiot. And only idiots traffic in that stuff.”

  “I know, but this is important.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  Using gen tech is the worst crime a legacy can commit. Not only is the punishment worse than banishment—the few black marketers who’ve gotten caught simply disappeared into police bot care—but gen tech is also dangerous because it’s so easy to trace back to you. After all, the evidence keeps living on as long as the patient does.

  “I’ll do whatever you want,” I say. “Work extra hours. Make deliveries. Whatever you need.” I haven’t been working for Riley that long, so I don’t even know the extent of his operation. But there’s got to be more I can do than simply man the shop while he’s off doing business elsewhere.

  He’s thinking about it. I can tell by the way he’s pretending to look at the screen while rubbing the graying scruff on his chin.

  “Come on, Riley. There’s gotta be something you’re tired of doing. Something a younger guy like me could take on.” I’m not even sure what I’m offering up here, but that quickens his interest.

  “I am getting tired of making runs outside the city.” He squints at me, seeing what I make of this.

  I swallow. Seattle’s a dump, filled with reality-freaks and bliss-heads, but it’s veritable paradise compared to what’s outside the bot-patrolled confines of the legacy cities. The remnants of humanity run pretty much wild. They’ve devolved back to anarchy at best. Religious cults at worst. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. I was born and raised a legacy—which, by definition, means I’ve never left the city. Leaving it isn’t actually hard. It’s getting back in that’s tough. Because if you’re caught by the police bots on the way back in… well, I’m not sure what happens to dissenters trying to infiltrate the legacy cities, but it’s not like we ever see any who make it.

  “I could… do some pickups for you.” I’m kind of proud that my voice doesn’t waver too much.

  Riley’s still assessing me with that narrow-eyed look. He nods slightly. “Might be worth the risk of bringing gen tech into my shop if I didn’t have to make all those trips to the outside.”

  He wants me to take on all the smuggling work. I swallow again. “Yeah. I can do that.”

  He raises his eyebrows. I think he’s a little surprised at my easy acceptance. “Means that much to you, huh?”

  My face heats, but I keep up the steady stare. “She’s like my mom, too.”

  He nods, slowly, with a little more compassion. I think. I could be imagining that part. He reaches under the counter to a black drawer at the bottom. It’s usually locked. I’ve never seen him open it before. He brings out a small silver box the size of a phone… and a gun that’s a lot bigger.

  I’m sure my eyes just popped.

  He smirks at my expression. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t get banished on your first trip out.” He nods to the silver device. “Don’t get seen on the way out. The jammer will help you get back in. But ya gotta be more careful then. They’ll chase you down if they catch your jam signal.”

  I nod and pick it up. The jammer looks standard. It’s the gun I’m worried about. “You know, I haven’t got a lot of practice with those,” I say, eyeing it.

  “Yeah, well, I’m hoping you won’t need to use it. Keep it tucked away and only bring it out if you have to.” He slides it across the glass to me, then holds my gaze. “You don’t have to do this, kid.”

  “Yeah, I do.” I pick it up. It’s mostly black metal, but there’s some kind of enhancement tech along the barrel. I’m not even sure if it shoots bullets or energy.

  “If you get caught out there, you’re on your own.” He grunts this part out. Like I don’t already know. “I can’t do anything for you.”

  “I understand,” I say, still staring at the gun. When I finally look up, Riley’s frown is the first sign I have that he might actually be worried about me. “Tell me what I have to do.”

  * * *

  It’s getting late in the afternoon as I hike out to the rendezvous point with Riley’s contact. Seattle’s got water to the east and west, and a connecting waterway to the north—which means going south is the only reasonable way to get out of the city without getting bottle-necked by a bot-patrolled bridge. The tramline connects the city to the ascender housing at the perimeter, but there aren’t many of the shiny pants who hang around Seattle—just the ones who like to study us. Or take us as pets. The police bots actively patrol a narrow-band zone around the tramline, the ascender housing, and the city itself. Riley was right that getting past them wasn’t hard on the way out—the jammer mapped them out for me, and I just had to wait until they were out of visual range.

  The rendezvous is miles away, and I’m on foot, so it takes a while. Plus I’m carrying two big bags of stuff for trade—some gray market goods, some stuff that looks like it came straight from someone’s grocery allotment, and Mrs. B’s hairbrush. Which is the only part that matters to me. I’m supposed to exchange all of it for some new bodyhack tech that Riley’s interested in.

  The southern suburbs of the city were abandoned by the ascenders after the Singularity, and the landscape just gets uglier the farther south I go. Most of the pre-Singularity infrastructure has fallen to ruin in the last hundred years, but it’s one thing to know that, and another to walk the crumbling pavement and hear the wind whistling through caved-in roofs and empty swing sets.

  It’s honestly giving me the creeps. Plus, I’ve heard the stories about human nomads who roam the edges of the cities, waiting to pick off legacies stupid enough to get themselves banished. Or idiot enough to wander outside voluntarily to rendezvous with smugglers, like me.


  When I reach the coordinates, the meetup is an ancient public transportation stop in the middle of nowhere. The walls are long-ago busted out, and the wooden bench is rotting, but I set down the bags and sit anyway—I’m beat. And I have no idea when this person is going to show. Riley just said to go and wait. Eventually the dude would appear.

  I don’t know where he’s coming from, either. I’ve heard there are dissenter reservations in Oregon, but that’s a long way to travel. I don’t think there are any settlements within walking distance. Maybe there’s a network of smugglers hiding out in the abandoned houses surrounding me? They could be watching me, and I’d never know.

  An eerie sound, like a bird call, comes from one of the buildings. I’m twitching with nerves as I scan the darkened windows and half-open doors of the decaying buildings, but I can’t see anything. I’m sitting here, out in the open, like a fresh legacy target from the city.

  I reach inside my jacket, pull out Riley’s gun, and sweep the barrel toward the empty doorways. Maybe that will make whoever’s watching me think twice. I still spend the next half hour nervously darting looks all around me and holding the gun close, in case they’re trying to sneak up.

  Finally, a solar bike rolls down the street, silent on battery power. I assume there’s someone inside—the thing is encased in black armor from front to back. I’ve never seen anything like it. Most bikes in the city are human-powered. Only a few are tricked out with solar for transporting goods to the gray market next to the beach. Everything normal gets delivered by bot.