The Cyborg Chronicles (The Future Chronicles)

by Peralta, Samuel

  But the Makers are different.

  Someone in Old Portland managed to save the library. Somehow, by some miracle, they were able to squirrel away the paper books and electronic discs and all kinds of old-style maker-tech media, hiding all that pre-Singularity information in the Portland Underground. That dank network of tunnels along the waterfront used to be notorious for kidnapping sailors or something, but they were close enough to the water to keep the ascenders away… and they quickly became a sanctuary for the first post-Singularity knowledge-seekers and craftsmen and technologists. Those early Makers had to hide their treasure trove of information and quietly rebuild. But in the hundred years since, they’ve steadily grown. And they’re not just preserving pre-Singularity knowledge. They’ve scrabbled and tinkered and crafted their way to better and better technology… as well as a society to support it.

  Even so, the tech is still sometimes pretty spotty. There are brilliant people in the shops, but the supply chain for goods is still underground, unreliable, and poor quality. Petroleum products from Wyoming. Rare earth metals from Idaho. Scavenged materials from the decaying city infrastructure around us. We smuggle some bot-made goods out of Seattle and outright steal tech from the ascenders to reverse engineer. Half the missions jivs train for are raids on New Portland, and we almost always lose someone to the police bots when we make a run. It’s necessary to keep the shops well-supplied, but no matter how much they innovate, they’ll never catch up to the ascenders. With their hyper intelligence and virtual immortality, they’re light years ahead… and always will be.

  Unless something changes.

  I’m determined to make something change.

  I’m finally in civvies again, although I could use a good shower. Not that the whole prep room doesn’t stink of sweat and grease and slightly-singed rubber. I’m stowing my suit in my bag when someone charges through the door at my back. I don’t turn, because I’m pretty sure I know who it is.

  “You. Are. Insane!”

  Yup. Definitely directed at me, and very much the voice of Mateo, the shop apprentice who wants to be my second.

  I turn to him, hiking my duffle over my shoulder. “If that’s your idea of a compliment, you need to up your game.” But I am a little relieved he wasn’t here to see the smoke coming off my suit. He’d just worry.

  Mateo presses his lips together in that little disapproving face he makes whenever I do something normal for a jiv—like go on a mission or compete or get banged up in any way. He’s half cute and half annoying when he does it. Cute because… well, he’s always cute. Dark eyes, messy hair, and that soft brown skin from his Hispanic heritage. If I had time for a second, he’d be at the top of my list of candidates who are Definitely Hot Enough to Kiss. But he’s still annoying because he thinks, for some reason, that just because he’s concerned, that means I’m doing something I shouldn’t. But I know exactly what I’m doing. And I know Mateo’s going to hate what’s coming next even more.

  He’s looking me over, like a medic checking for wounds. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I brush past him toward the door. I’m not sleeping tonight anyway, due to the lingering Resilience, so I might as well cram in some extra studying. I’m going to need it.

  He’s following me, which makes me smile a little. Once we’re out in the hall, away from the curious eyes and ears of the other jivs, he tags me on the elbow.

  “Mir, hang on.”

  I let him stop me in the dusty hall. My apartment with my dad is miles away, but there’s a transport waiting for the jivs. We’ve got some cloud cover today, so the normal satellites won’t be tracking us. Hard to say when the ascenders’ infrared sats will be watching, but a lone sun truck trundling around Old Portland shouldn’t draw too much scrutiny. But we’re not leaving until everyone’s ready to go, so there’s really no reason for me to rush off to the transport.

  “Congratulations.” Mateo says it like he thinks he should, but he doesn’t really want to. Then he frowns. “You know they’re going to want you to test this mod, right?”

  I huff a small laugh. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s part of the terms and conditions, Teo.”

  He shakes his head like he thinks I’m crazy again. “Why are you doing this? You know you’re going to give your dad a heart attack with this.”

  The smile drops off my face. “He’ll be okay.” I don’t like talk of my dad hurting. My mom never made it out of Seattle—her heart disease was the kind the ascenders refused to cure, even though they could. But Mateo doesn’t know that. Most people don’t. The Makers just took me and my dad in after we left the legacy life behind and searched for somewhere else to call home.

  “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.

  Chapter Three

  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 Makers’ 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 with 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 New 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.