“Your father’s not okay, Mir.” His frown is serious now. “He’s sitting back at your place, right now, reading that old book again.”
“The Torah?” I ask with a raised eyebrow. Mateo knows my dad is deep into his faith.
“No,” he says with sigh. “Old Man and the Sea.”
“Oh.” That draws my face down as well. That’s not a good sign. My dad only hauls that one out when… well, when he’s stuck in the past, not the future. It was my mom’s favorite.
“Yeah.” He gives me a knowing look. And he’s right—when my dad drops into these funks, he has a hard time shaking them.
“Okay.” I suck in a breath. What I’m going to say next is just going to make things worse. “You can’t tell him this, Teo. Promise me.”
“Tell him what?” He hikes up one dark eyebrow.
“Promise.” I jab the air near his face.
He leans back. “Okay, okay. What is it?”
“I’m applying for the Offering.”
“What?” His mouth drops open, and he looks at me like I’ve gone mad. “What is wrong with you, Miriam?”
I groan and turn to stride toward the transport. This is not how I envisioned telling him. I don’t know how I expected it to go, not really. Maybe something along the lines of proclaiming my fealty to the Maker cause. Or practicing my speech with him, the one I’ll have to give for my application. I may have had some stupid fantasy of that moment being our first kiss. Some grand, romantic gesture before I marched off to my almost-certain doom… God, I’m an idiot.
Mateo is sputtering as he trots next to me, his inarticulate outrage apparently threatening to choke him to death.
“Stop!” he finally says, grabbing my arm and yanking me to a stop.
My Resilience-pumped reflexes make me twist out of his grasp and bunch the front of his homespun shirt in my fist before I know what I’m doing. I heave two breaths into his face before I come to my senses. I let him go and smooth down his shirt.
His eyes are as wide as saucers.
“It’s the drugs, Teo,” I say, my breath speeding up more as I talk. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” I screw up my face to keep the tears in. “You know better than to tap a jiv when she’s pumped. Come on.”
His hands are up—not in terror of my rabid warrior reflexes, but in reassurance—and the panic is gone from his face. “You would never hurt me, Mir. I know that.”
I nod, too quickly. Still, I take a step back.
“But you can’t be the Offering,” he says, a determined fire in his dark eyes. “You’re a jiv.”
But, of course, I can. All I have to do is pass the tests and get chosen. Never mind that no jiv has ever applied before. Because we’re supposed to be defending the Makers, not trying to become their prophet.
“I probably won’t pass the psych eval,” I say with a strained smile.
“Well, you certainly shouldn’t. Not with the way you’re constantly—” He cuts himself off and runs a hand through his hair, the panic bright in his eyes again.
“Constantly what?” I ask, but I already know what he’s going to say. Constantly taking risks I shouldn’t. Constantly pushing the limits. But he doesn’t understand… that’s why I’m here. It’s what I’m supposed to do.
“Constantly trying to get back at the ascenders for what happened to your mom.”
I just blink and stare at him. Once. Twice. Then I turn and hurry toward the transport again. He’s not right. He’s wrong. I tell myself this again and again in my head, and the Resilience makes me sure. I’m certain he’s wrong. But I’m having a harder time getting a breath than when Zach side-swiped me to the ground. Because if Mateo’s right, if this is all just my vendetta against the ascenders, I’m not going to pass the psych eval. And even if I pass, the council will never select me if they think I’m out for vengeance. Because even though the most likely outcome of the Offering is my sudden and painful death, it’s possible I’ll live. And if that happens, they can’t have a hyper-intelligent maniac on their hands.
What the Makers need is a leader.
And I have no chance of that if they think I’m already a gear short of a full load.
I reach the transport and close the door in Mateo’s face.
It’s been three days since the surgery, and the scar still itches.
I trace the red line between my ribs, feeling the raised flesh that’s sealed back around where they implanted the Resurrection mod. The med tech explained the details to me, but I only understood about half. Basically the mod is supposed to kick in when I’m near death—it doses my lungs with a gas that lowers my metabolism and triggers a hibernation state. Heart rate, breathing, brain function—all of it is supposed to basically stop. The idea is that when a jiv is injured traumatically in the field, and they don’t have a med tech nearby, the Resurrection mod will shut them down until we can get them back to the Maker’s camp. Once the jiv is back in the shop and all patched up, then the med tech can authorize the resurrection sequence and the process will reverse itself.
They’ve tested it on mice. So far, the mice haven’t complained.
I’m the first human to get it—which means they plan to shut me down and start me up again to give it a good shake-out test. And, honestly, I prefer that to testing it in the field with a life-threatening injury.
Although a field trial is exactly what I’m planning with the Offering.
Mateo is the only person I’ve told I’m applying. I didn’t want the shop guys to have any second thoughts until the mod was safely installed inside my body. But since then, I’ve put my name in for this year’s Offering, and I’ve already taken all the standard tests—intelligence, general knowledge, the full psychological battery. All that’s left is the Persuasion Test tomorrow. It’s really just an interview, but the idea is that you’re supposed to show off your social skills. See if you have what it takes to lead. And it makes sense that the person most able to persuade the council that they can lead the Makers forward is exactly the right person to be given the chance.
I’ve gone back and forth on whether to tell my dad. If I tell him beforehand, he’ll try to talk me out of it. Which might mean a hit to my self-confidence. Which I will definitely need to have any chance of passing the test. But once they make the selection, there’s no backing out. I’ll still have a chance to say goodbye to my dad… but he won’t have a chance to try to stop me.
All of which is moot if I’m not selected. But I will be. If not this time, then the next. And as many times as I have to offer myself up. I already know I will—right up until I’m too old for the procedure. It only gives me a few years, since the upper limit is twenty-one due to medical complications. This is the first time I’m eligible, but I’ve been thinking about this seriously ever since I heard they were working on the Resurrection mod in the shop.
Now that I have it, it’s time to give my last full measure to the cause.
The only question is whether I tell my father first.
That’s why I’m standing in a bombed-out synagogue with my father’s prayer book in front of my face. I have no idea what the prayers mean, but this is how my father prays when he stands in the corner of our apartment and recites in that quiet, calm voice of his. I never learned my father’s religion—my mother didn’t share it, and besides it was illegal to practice it when we were in Seattle. Once she died and we left the city, I thought he would use our new religious freedom to teach me the language and the rituals. But he never did. And I was too immersed in having new legs and access to the vast wells of knowledge the Makers possessed to think much about it. Then I was swept up in becoming a jiv and a warrior for the cause.
My father’s quiet faith seemed irrelevant.
Only now I’m standing here unable to pray because I don’t know how.
I close the prayer book and hold it to my face the way I’ve seen my father do. I imagine behind closed eyes what this temple must have looked like before the Singularity, filled wit
h a hundred faithful just like my father, whispering and singing their prayers. Their faith supported them through thousands of years of persecution and displacement from their homes. Not unlike what all of humanity has been reduced to now with the ascenders. I can easily see my father here, in that long-ago time, bowing and reciting. Praying for guidance from his God.
My faith is of a different kind. I believe in the desperate need for humanity to have a future better than what they have now. But we can’t wait around for anyone’s God to make it happen. We’ll have to bootstrap ourselves into that future by the power of our minds and our bodies—and without losing our souls, our humanity, as the ascenders have.
I still wish I knew how to talk to the God of my father… if only to ask what to do with the one person I love enough to worry about leaving behind.
“God of my father.” My words are swallowed up in the cavernous wreck of a holy place. I open my eyes and look up. The ceiling is more hole than plaster, and the bright sun of Old Portland’s morning shines through. I don’t know where this God is that I’m speaking to. The words feel awkward in my mouth, so I close my eyes again and drop my voice to a whisper. “My father’s people have always been your people. But now the Makers need someone to lead them. Someone who can give them a chance. I don’t know if I’m that person, or if I’m just the next in a long line of experiments to create the prophet. I suspect you know. I don’t need you to tell me. I just need you to watch over your faithful son, my father, if I’m not here to do it myself. He’s suffered enough already. He doesn’t need to suffer any more. But the Offering is something I have to do. Because I can… and I think I’m the only one who has a chance of making it work.”
My words dissipate into the emptiness of overturned benches and rotting walls. The soft sound of birds in the dark rafters is all the response I get. Not that I was expecting any. I just hope I did it right—that my father’s God heard me and will look out for him. And in a way, I have an answer to my question, even though I didn’t ask it. I’m not going to tell my father until this year’s Offering is chosen. If it’s not me, then he doesn’t need to know. If it is, he will have less time to worry before the event itself.
It’s the best I can do—to spare him as much pain as possible.
It’s a two-mile walk to meet with the council. Normally, they convene in an abandoned control center in the rail yards, but the Offering tests are always conducted in the Japanese gardens on the hill. It takes me longer than I expect because the sunshine keeps me winding through abandoned buildings and staying under awnings as much as possible. The ascenders don’t care what humans do, as long as there’s not too many of us in one place at one time. Or possessing too much technology. Or obviously putting off some kind of energy signature that would indicate major industrial activity. That’s why everything the Makers do is carefully kept concealed, underground, routed out of view. The ascenders’ satellite scans probably wouldn’t register anything odd about one human girl heading up into the gardens, but it’s instinct at this point to stay out of sight.
I pause when I reach the covered entrance. The view is spectacular. A crisp morning breeze off the river. Mt. Hood in the distance. The blue of the sky dazzles my eyes, and I wink on my NuView just to take a few pictures and revel in the full spectrum of wavelengths I can see dancing across Old Portland’s downtown.
Most of the garden is completely overgrown—probably a bit more wild than the meticulously tended pre-Singularity era. The paths are kept clear enough to be navigable but not so maintained as to draw suspicion. The trees are thick, and the branches provide cover from both the sun and the satellites. There’s even some now-wild koi that have managed to survive past their caretakers. When I arrive at the tea garden, the council members are already in the teahouse, talking amongst themselves. The previous applicant is nowhere to be seen, which is just as well. They don’t release the names of those who apply, just the one selected. That way everyone knows who’s giving their lives for the rest of us. Their family members are treated with the utmost dignity, not only before the Offering procedure, but for the rest of their lives. Families of the Offered will never be in need. Just like we protect children and the infirm, the loved ones the Offered leave behind will always be cared for, as long as any Maker survives. In that sense, I know my father will be watched over, even if his God doesn’t listen to my prayers.
The council members have nothing but smiles for me. Five altogether, currently two men and three women. I recognize most of them. Two are Master Makers from the shops. One is a Head Librarian from the original archives down by the wharf. I’m not sure about the other two, but they’re all elected for their skills and their wisdom. I have no doubts about their competence. My only concern is whether I’ll measure up to what they’re looking for.
A dose of Resilience would be nice, but I know a drug-dependent jiv isn’t in their top twenty desirable leadership types. Nor is someone bent on bloody, personal revenge.
I take a deep breath and return their smiles.
“Miriam Levine.” The dark-haired woman gestures for me to stand on a woven mat. It’s positioned in front of the slightly elevated slate flooring they are gathered upon. The frame of the tea house is still standing, but the thin walls have long since crumbled away.
“Good morning, reverend council members,” I reply with the standard protocol listed in the application. I give them a salute before I remember the council is civilian, not military. The jivs serve the council, of course, but they’re not part of our protocols. A few smirks dance around the faces of the council members. I try not to let that throw me.
“I am Master Maker Elora Hawkins,” the dark-haired woman says, “and I’ll be guiding your time with us. The other council members may have questions for you as well, but please be at ease, Miriam. And know that we’re honored by your presence here today. Your mere willingness to offer yourself for the betterment of all Makers shows the courage of your heart, and we all have the greatest respect for that, regardless of the final choice. And this is your time, Miriam. So please, tell us why you wish to be chosen for the Offering.”
So it begins.
I’m actually a little unsettled by the warm tone and the gentle voice. It’s in dissonance to my jittery need to explain why this is so important to me. But I take a deep breath and launch into my rehearsed speech.
“I believe the ascenders will never voluntarily open ascendance to humans again. I believe humans will forever be second class on this planet, even though we are the originals. We are the fount the ascenders sprung from, and our biology holds the key to unlocking even more potential than the ascenders themselves have realized. Humans are Makers by design. We are the original tinkerers, the creators, the ones who have the spark of life inside us. Machines can augment who we are, but they cannot replace what we are.”
My words have captured their attention, but my rhetoric has to sound strange coming from a girl whose legs are metal and hydraulics. But all the physical augments are just a way to give jivs a chance against the bots. They’re not the endgame for humanity. Not even close.
It seems like the council should be asking questions, but they’re not. I press on. “I believe the ascenders lost their souls in their brand of ascendance, because in the heady power of expanding their minds, they imagined themselves to be gods. And being gods, they could no longer be bothered with being human.” I spread my arms wide, embracing the serene beauty around me. “They are like gods in their own minds, but they have lost the one thing they could ever claim to be god-like—their immortal souls. And humanity—the only beings who are still in possession of that inalienable spark—will forever be enslaved by these false gods. Forever imprisoned to the shadows of the relics of our past by their machines and their watchful eyes. Unless… unless and until, we Make ourselves into something more. We humans have always been Makers by design. Makers by design,” I repeat, more slowly. “But who designed us? I don’t know, but I believe that freedom of religi
on is freedom of thought. Restrict one, and you inevitably restrict the other. The ascenders tried to stamp out the practice of religion in the purges after the Singularity, and they still squash it in the legacy cities, but wherever humans are free to think, they will each have their own beliefs. Yet it doesn’t matter what those beliefs are. Whatever God you believe in, whatever purpose you think the universe has for the conscious beings that humans are, you can see the evidence of what we actually are in everything we do—we were created to create. A hundred years ago, one of our creations managed to trigger a Singularity that almost ended us. Humanity almost lost its very soul. And for many—the ascended—they are already lost. The only way to reclaim our world is to try again. To push forward into that final frontier of the mind, remaking ourselves in the image not of gods, but of the very best that humanity can be. We cannot afford to wait for the second coming of a divine being. The ascenders are not capable of bestowing this deliverance upon us. We must craft a second Singularity ourselves. We must fight with flesh and blood and technology to claw the world back from the product of humanity’s first failed experiment. Our first attempt to Make ourselves into something better.”
Master Elora’s eyes are wide. She opens her mouth to say something, but then closes it again. She doesn’t speak. None of them do. My speech is just my cobbled-together thoughts—the creed of the Makers, my loathing of the ascenders, and my own passion for the future, all rolled into one. It very simply is what I believe. What I’m fighting for. What I want to give my all to.
It’s time for me to make the final pitch. The persuasion part of the test. “I am a jiv. I have already pledged to give my life to the cause of the betterment of Makers and humankind. But I’m ready to give everything I have—my mind as well as my life—to help create a leader who can be that next step forward. I carry inside me some of our newest technology—the Resurrection mod. I don’t know if that will help with the transcendence. Maybe. Maybe not. But you can use that and learn from my body’s acceptance of the procedure… or not. And if I survive, I promise you—there won’t be a day of my life that won’t be dedicated to living up to the gift you’ve bestowed on me. Every living breath will be a reminder of my purpose: to Make humanity into something better without losing our souls in the process.”
Stories of Singularity #1-4 (Restore, Containment, Defiance, Augment) Page 11