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.
The bike rolls to a stop and stabilizers sprout from the sides to balance it. The armor stays sealed up. I stand up, not sure what to do. I point the gun at the ground to show I’m not a threat.
“I’ve got the goods for trade,” I say, trying to sound confident.
There’s no reply.
A sweat breaks out on the back of my neck.
A long stretch of time that’s probably only ten seconds ticks by while I wait.
A quick shift at the front of the armor and a thwick sound is all the warning I get—something stabs me in the chest and sends thousands of volts through my system. I seize up and fall hard, landing on the bags but whacking my head bad enough on the pavement to see stars through the convulsions. It hurts like crazy, but my jaw is locked tight, so I can only shake and moan as the smuggler decloaks his bike, strides toward me, and drops to one knee to snatch Riley’s gun from the ground where it’s fallen. Then he holds a black-gloved hand over my chest, snaps his fingers, then splays his hand out again—the two darts yank out of my chest and clack against some metal plate on his hand.
My muscles are still so cramped, I have no control over them—but at least the pain is gone, and the convulsions have stopped. The smuggler tucks Riley’s gun inside the long black-leather coat he’s wearing, and I remember far too late: I wasn’t supposed to take it out unless I planned to use it. I struggle to look up at the smuggler’s face—I get a glimpse of someone older, maybe twenty-five, his skin weathered with sun around his dark eyes. Those eyes don’t have any mercy in them—an assessment quickly confirmed as he stands up and shoves me off the bags with his boot. My body rolls until I’m face down on the pavement. My limbs are unlocking from the taser shock, but not enough to do anything other than prop my face off the ground and watch him strolling back to his bike with all my stuff.
“Please,” I gasp out. My voice is hoarse from the shock. “It’s for my mom.” Not the complete truth, but close enough.
He ignores me, tossing my bags onto his bike and fishing out my gun to inspect it briefly. I should be thankful he’s not shooting me with it. I should shut up and just let him go. But I can’t—I haven’t got what I came for.
I force my arms to heave me up to my knees, then slowly stagger to my feet. When I look up, the barrel of Riley’s gun is pointed at my head. I can’t raise my arms—they’re still not working right—so I just put my palms up in surrender. It’s not like I’m in any shape to attack him.
“She’s dying,” I say, my voice coming back a little. “The shiny pants won’t cure her, the bastards, and I just…” I stall out. The gun isn’t wavering. This man doesn’t care about us any more than the ascenders do. “If you need more money, I’ll get it. Just please… I’ve got to have the gen tech.”
He gives me an inscrutable look.
Seconds tick by.
He lowers the gun. “This isn’t a business for amateurs, kid. Go home.”
I fight against the cramping of my muscles to straighten up taller. “I’m not a kid,” I say, trying to back that up with my full height.
He snorts, tucking Riley’s gun back into his trenchcoat again. “You’re legacy,” he says, like that explains everything.
Only I’m not sure what he means. Of course I’m legacy. I’m coming from the city. But the way he says it… it’s an insult.
“I’m not a domestic, if that’s what you’re saying.” I can hear the rise in my voice, and I wonder if I’m being an idiot, but it really rubs me the wrong way. Because he’s rig
ht—I may not be the love toy of some sleaze-bag ascender at the perimeter, but I live off the largess of the ascenders like every other legacy. “I hate the ascenders… and everything they stand for.”
He raises an eyebrow and turns to face me, but he doesn’t look impressed. “So leave.”
I just stare at him. “I can’t. I’ve got a brother and a mother—”
He turns back to his bike.
“I can’t just abandon them!” I blurt out… all while his words chip away at my brain. Why I haven’t left? I don’t have a good reason, not really. Especially since my grandpa passed. Any day, I could slip past the police bots and easily leave the city. But I knew that before I headed south for this meetup. I’ve always known the ascenders wouldn’t try to keep me in. The trick of being a legacy is walking on the right side of all their laws enough to not get kicked out. Or get caught, when you do. And I’ve been walking on the wrong side for a long time.
“I thought you weren’t a kid.” He’s smirking at me now, astride his bike, ready to roll off with all my stuff, Riley’s gun, and no gen tech for Eli’s mom.
I stride forward, fast and full of anger, and stand in front of his bike, blocking his way. I grip the front of the folded armor. “I’m not leaving because they need me. They need someone who understands the ascenders are only out for themselves and don’t give a damn about humans. They need someone to look out for them, because no one else is going to.”
He calmly assesses me, dark eyes filled with some kind of humor that makes my blood boil. Then he gives me a small nod.
I’m not sure what that means.
He lifts his chin. “Hands off the bike.” But he’s saying it in a way that’s more friendly advice than a threat. I think.
I ease back, clenching my fists at my side, and meet his stare with one of my own.
Stories of Singularity #1-4 (Restore, Containment, Defiance, Augment) Page 8
