Their mouths gape a little. I don’t know if I’ve persuaded them or completely freaked them out. They look at each other, but not a word is whispered between them. Master Elora’s calm, warming words are long gone, lost in the Japanese gardens behind me.
I’ve said everything I can say.
I give them a jiv salute—a strong one this time—and I turn and march away.
I’ve been chosen.
The words ring in my head, even as I hear them come out of the handheld. I’m hooked into Portlink, the vast underground comm network left dormant after the ascenders abandoned the city and created New Portland to the south. The Makers’ techs have strategically hooked up some links and broken others, so it’s fairly secure. Plus we monitor it to make sure there’s no chatter from an unknown source. It connects the sprawling enterprise of Makers throughout the city and even into the countryside, allowing them to conduct trade, keep people connected, and every once in a while, make public announcements.
Like the selection for this year’s Offering.
The announcement starts to repeat.
I shut it off.
I’m going to die. The reality of that slams into my chest.
There’s a small chance I’ll live. Not that anyone has before, but each time the tech is a little better. Each time, there’s a slightly better chance. If there wasn’t, the Makers wouldn’t keep taking Offerings. But I’m not counting on that. My only real hope is the Resurrection mod. I don’t know if that’s what sold the council on choosing me or not, and it’s still basically untested tech, but that’s what convinced me to apply. That’s why I fought so hard to get the mod. Because it would at least give me a fighting chance.
That doesn’t keep my hand from shaking.
I slowly set down the handheld on the bed in my room, but I stay standing, staring at the bedcover crafted for me by the Quilt Makers when I first came to the camp with nothing but the clothes on my back. They welcomed me like a long lost child… and now I was going to die for them. Or become their leader.
I need to tell my father, but I’m frozen in place. My brain is in too much shock. I can’t make my legs move.
A bang sounds from the front room. My mind tells me it’s the front door, and my heart seizes. Have they come for me already? Will I not have time to say goodbye?
Before that fear can unlock my body and send me hurtling into the front room where my father is reading his book, huddled up by the afternoon sun at the window, my bedroom door flies open.
Mateo.
I melt with relief.
His eyes are wild. He rushes at me. I’m so uncertain as to what he’s doing that it takes me a second to realize he’s hugging me. I finally manage to get my arms around his back, hugging him as well, and then I truly do melt into him. Every muscle under my control goes soft. Only his strong hold and my augment legs are keeping me up.
“Miriam. Miriam.” His voice is mourning me already.
It takes all my willpower to loosen my grip on him and pull back, just a little, so I can say the words that will reassure him. But I don’t have any.
Instead, he kisses me.
His hands on my cheeks. His lips pressed to mine. They move, fervent and angry, and I cling to him again, kissing him back and holding in the sob that wants to work its way out of my chest. He stops the kiss and presses his cheek to mine, holding me close, eyes squeezed tight. His tears wet my cheek. Or possibly they’re mine. I can’t tell.
His hold on me slowly loosens, but he’s breathing hard with the same half-cry that’s coming out of me. I lean away and wipe my face.
“I have to…” I can barely speak.
“I’ll go with you,” he says, automatically understanding that I mean my father. That I have to tell him this terrible thing I’ve done and feel his heart break before I’m even dead. To see the disappointment in his eyes that I would leave him alone in this world.
Mateo holds my hand in his, wiping his face with the other and leading me out of the bedroom. My father is right where I left him a half hour ago, when I retreated to my room to hear the news alone. He’s staring out the window as we approach. I didn’t think he was going to listen to the announcement… but under his slow-tapping finger is a handheld.
He knows. And I didn’t prepare him.
I feel it like a blind punch in the ring, sudden and jarring.
“Mr. Levine,” Mateo says, looking back and forth between me and my father. I don’t think he’s realized my dad already knows.
“It’s all right, Mateo,” my father says, still gazing out the window. He keeps tapping.
I hurry to kneel next to the overstuffed chair he’s folded up in. All his limbs are crossed—arms and legs, hugging to one side of the chair like he can disappear into it.
“I’m sorry, Papa.” My voice is a half sob.
He stops tapping, as if he didn’t know I was there. He blinks several times, then turns to me. All his limbs unfold, and his arms wrap around me. I hug him hard. We stay that way a long time. I hear Mateo behind us, trying not to make any sounds, but failing to keep in the hard breaths.
When my dad finally loosens his hold on me, he strokes my hair, again and again, as if that’s the only part he can focus on. Eventually, he stops.
My eyes search his, looking for forgiveness and only finding hollowness.
After a long stretch of painful seconds, he looks directly at me. “You were always meant for something like this,” he says softly. “I didn’t know what it would be, but from the moment you were born, your mother and I both said, this little one… this one is a gift. She belongs to God.”
I press my lips together, but I can’t help the tears running down my cheeks.
He smiles a little. “I had only hoped I would keep you for a little while longer.”
Then I break down entirely, laying my head on my father’s knee and weeping. He absently pets my hair and looks out the window.
It’s a long time before I can calm myself enough to let Mateo drag me away.
My father doesn’t watch as we leave.
“You have to look after him, Teo.”
“I will, Mir, I promise.” Mateo grips my hand as I’m lying on the gurney.
I’ve said this to him four times already, so I pledge to myself not to say it again before the procedure starts. In all likelihood, he’s going to watch me die—I don’t need to add any more burdens on top of that. My hand’s shaking, and his isn’t much better, but he’s here with me, which is something my father isn’t even close to capable of doing.
Mateo is as brave as any jiv I know.
The med techs bustle around us. We’re in the medical suite of the mod shop, the same place I’ve gotten my augments. The Makers’ shops are varied and spread throughout the city, but this one specializes in building better warriors for the cause… as well as administering the procedure on the Offered. The gen tech is actually cooked up elsewhere; this is just where the application is done. There are far more techs here than I’ve ever seen before. I don’t know if they’re really necessary or if they’ve just come to witness the event.
A couple of the med techs drag Mateo a short distance away, rapidly suiting him up with the antiseptic gowns and masks they’re also wearing. My heart is already pounding out of my chest, and not having Mateo’s hand gripping mine makes it lurch around erratically. A kind-eyed tech takes his place by my side and scoops up my shaking hand in her gloved one.
It doesn’t really help, but it’s a nice gesture.
“Miriam Levine, it’s an honor to be in this room with you,” she says softly.
If they keep talking about it that way, my heart’s going to pound itself into failure before they even have a chance to start the procedure. But I can’t really get words out anymore, so I just shake my head rapidly at her.
She seems to understand and switches her tone to something more clinical. “You’ve a right to know the details of your modification. Would you like to hear the technical specific
ations?”
It’s the standard protocol for a mod. I nod in relief. It’s a shaky one, but she gets it.
“We’re infusing you with a gen tech serum containing modified glial cells. They will integrate with your native cells, induce rapid growth, and transform their function to enhance synaptic signal transmission and retention capabilities. This will support a higher neural metabolic rate as well as neocortical cell density. The new glials are self-replicating and self-repairing, with additional processing capability. That’s the main enhancement over the previous… Offering. Do you understand?”
I shake my head no—the tech talk is way over my head—but I give her a grim smile to show that it doesn’t matter. My heart isn’t pounding quite as hard now.
She pats my hand, the one she’s still holding, and smiles behind her mask. “Your glial cells will be like no glial before.”
I nod. And this time it really sinks in—they’re doing something entirely new to me, and that’s exactly the point. If the experiment doesn’t work, they’ll crack open my head and take a look inside… and they’ll learn something. Something that will help them with the next batch, the next round, the next experiment. No matter what happens inside my head, it will help the Makers move forward in the cause.
And that’s all I’ve ever really wanted my life to count for.
I suck in a long shaky breath and let it out slow. My throat opens up enough that I can say, “I’m ready.”
She holds my hand a moment longer, the smile still fixed under her mask, but I think she’s tearing up, because she quickly turns away. Which is good. I don’t need to see that.
Mateo is back by my side, gripping my hand again. This time, I can squeeze back, and even give him a smile. Well, a tortured one, and I quit it right away, because it only seems to twist up his face with pain.
“It’s okay, Teo,” I say. “This is what I want.”
He shakes his head, and I can almost hear the thoughts that must be going through it. Something along the lines of how much of an idiot I am. He seems to be debating which words to let out, but in the end, he just says, “I know.”
I nod. The kind-eyed med tech is back, this time with a freakishly long-needled syringe. I know the procedure has to be done while awake—that’s the best way to monitor brain function—but I wish I didn’t have to see that thing go into my body.
I decide I’m not going to watch. I give her a nod, then turn back to Mateo and focus on him. His dark brown eyes are so pretty, almost girl-like with those long, dark lashes. I really am an idiot for not kissing him sooner, but there’s no sense in regrets at this point. I keep my gaze trained on him as I feel the med tech’s hand gently turn my head to the side. There’s a cool swiping at the base of my skull. Antiseptic. I can smell it. Then a different pungent smell and another cool swipe—my skin goes numb at the spot. Then the press of something. I feel the pressure but no pain. Just the sense of something invading my body.
Something new.
Mateo’s blinking back tears, so I smile at him. It’s a real one this time, because the fear is flying away on feathered wings. It’s done now. Whatever’s going to be will be. We sit that way for a long time—tens of minutes, I think. I’m not sure. I’m getting a little sleepy, but I figure that’s just the fact that I’m lying down, holding hands with Mateo amidst a hush in the room. It’s a held breath. A sense of quiet anticipation. The calmness of it pervades me.
Minutes continue to tick by.
The change starts as a headache.
Pressure behind my eyes. It’s weak at first, then stronger, then the pain flashes white across my eyes and blinds me. I gasp as my NuView pulses erratically, sending weird images skittering across my sightline. I squeeze my eyes shut, but my eyelids are twitching so badly, it keeps triggering the NuView on and off. The headache becomes a screaming pain in my temples, and I rise up from the gurney. I manage to sit momentarily, but then hands are on me, shoving me down flat. My body is convulsing, shaking the gurney. I’ve lost Mateo’s hand, I think, but I’m not really sure. There’s just the screaming and the flailing, and slowly the darkness closes in, long and black and suffocating.
Then I can’t breathe at all. Suddenly. As if all the air in the room has been vacuumed out into the blackness of space. I’m gasping for air, but I can’t get any. It’s like I’m back in the ring, slammed down on the concrete, my lungs collapsing, the air knocked out by the brute force. Then the sense of it starts to fade along with the panic. My sense of everything—sights, sounds, feeling—diminishes. A thought struggles against the nothingness: the Resurrection mod. It’s shutting me down. That’s what this would feel like. This is what dying feels like.
And then nothing more.
There are thoughts before there is breath.
Tangled thoughts. Swimming realities. My father in his chair, reading the Torah. My mother bending down to kiss my cheek. A blow landed in the ring, sending my opponent crashing to the concrete. They are all memories that belong to me, but they’re muddled together. No… not muddled… simply being resorted. Indexed. Categorized and stored. It’s a sweeping up, a housekeeping of sorts. Thoughts and feelings and ideas—I see connections between them that I didn’t before. Those form new ideas, ones that need a special place of storage until I’m ready to think upon them some more. For now, I’m just tidying up the assortment, like a scavenger picking through scrap to see what’s good for salvage and what can safely be left behind to slowly rot away in the baking sun.
Then breath comes rushing back. I gasp in air, my body arching up then falling back with a dull metallic thud. Fill and release, in and out; oxygen floods and enlivens my entire body.
My mind expands in an overdrive that makes me dizzy. My eyes blink open, but too soon—the flood of information, sights and sounds and smells, is more than I can take, so I squeeze them shut again. I breathe more, suck in more, and focus only on that for a long stretch of seconds.
There are sounds all around me: shouts, a clatter of something metallic on the stone floor, crying. I hear them but shunt that information to the side because there’s simply too much to process at the moment. Breathe in. Breath out. Smells… those aren’t too much for my hyper-sensitive mind, so I shut out the rest and focus on that. The acrid tang of antiseptic. The sweat of human bodies. Each has their own flavor—some feminine, some masculine. I can feel the uniqueness of each one. Pheromones, a recessed memory conjures the name of them. One is special… it belongs to Mateo. He’s here, in the room with me, overshadowed by the press of other scents, including my own. I cringe internally: I’m not smelling that great at the moment. I make a note to clean up when I get a chance.
A chance.
I’m alive. This awareness catapults me out of my shut-down state. The barrage of sensations is still overwhelming, but I fight to open my eyes anyway. I squint at the lights overhead, blink at them, then command my body to curl up off the gurney for a better vantage point. Every muscle screams in protest, but I manage it. The room is packed with gowned med techs staring at me with shocked faces. They’re keeping their distance, like they’re not sure what’s happening.
But I know exactly what’s happening: the resurrection mod worked. And the experiment took. And the vast, vast room inside my head is only beginning to be filled.
It worked.
The elation of that is quickly tempered by the wildness of their eyes. They’re terrified. I can see it. Smell it. Even Mateo is gap-mouthed, staring at me like I’m an alien. But I’m not.
I’m Miriam Levine. Only more.
I have an urgent sense that I need to reassure them. I lift my hand and beckon the nearest med tech to my side. His eyes go even wider, but he edges over, bending his head, like he thinks I might have difficulty speaking.
And I do. I have to clear my throat twice before I can form audible words.
“How long have I been out?” I ask.
He flashes an even-more-surprised look to the rest of the gathered techs, then q
uickly turns back to me. “A week,” he says, the smile growing broad under his mask.
Mateo pushes forward through the crowd, but he hesitates at the foot of my bed. I smile for him. The med tech must be telling the truth, because it feels like my face hasn’t moved for at least that long. The memory of the kind-eyed med tech’s words from before come rushing back… the technical explanation for what is going on inside my cranium… only this time, I understand what she said. And a whole lot more.
I peer up into the med tech’s jubilant expression. “I need to know precisely what you’ve done to me.”
His face falls, a frown creasing his forehead.
I temper my smile a little and raise an eyebrow. “So I can help you improve it.”
Both his eyebrows fly up, and the look of shock is priceless.
It will take them some time to understand. To put the pieces together. But eventually they’ll figure out what I’ve already leapt to, in a mere minute of being conscious with this gift they’ve given me—this precious thing that so many before me have given their lives to craft.
We are Makers by design.
And we’ve just taken a giant leap forward.
Want more of this intriguing world?
Susan is still actively writing in the Singularity world.
Start with The Legacy Human.
What would you give to live forever?
Elijah Brighton wants to become an ascender—human/machine hybrid—they’re smarter, more enlightened, and achingly beautiful. But Eli’s a legacy human, preserved for his unaltered genetic code, just like the rainforest he paints. When a fugue state miraculously lands Eli a sponsor for the creative Olympics, he might win the right to ascend. But when Eli arrives at the Games, he finds the ascenders are playing games of their own. Everything he knows starts to unravel… until he’s running for his life and wondering who he truly is.
Stories of Singularity #1-4 (Restore, Containment, Defiance, Augment) Page 12