The Cyborg Chronicles (The Future Chronicles)

by Peralta, Samuel

  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 religion 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.”

  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.

  Chapter Four

  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 d
oor 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 specifications?”

  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. H
is 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.