Читать книгу Original Syn - Beth Kander - Страница 12

Leaves. Green. Thick, heavy foliage. Heady, humid jungle air. He moves as quickly as the environment allows, stumbling frequently, getting caught and tangled, untangling himself by falling forward and just continuing to move forward.

Breathing heavily, heart surging, sweating through his clothes, Ere tries to take a normal breath but can only gasp as he keeps half-running, half-falling forward. The fabric of his shirt clings to his chest and he wants to take it off, but his clothing is all that protects him from the thousand little stings of barbed branches, underbrush, insects. He runs. Faster, faster, faster.

He becomes aware of a humming sound, realizes that this sound is what he is moving toward. He doesn’t know what the hum means, or where it’s coming from, he just knows that he has to get to wherever it is. Whatever it is. Whoever it is. As quickly as possible. Another sound cuts through the hum:

“Ere!”

He turns quickly, too quickly; a cruel root twists under his foot and his ankle snaps, sending him down to the earth as a sharp pain shoots up his leg. A blinding ray of sunshine cuts through the leaves, assaulting Ere. He senses danger, a Syn—a thousand Syns, a million Syns—

“Ere!”

Blinking and shielding his eyes with the back of his arm, he looks up, tries to see who is calling his name. How could a Syn know his name? Unless it wasn’t—he sees her: a girl.

She stands silhouetted, blocking out the harsh light but also shielding her features from Ere. All he can see is her hair—long, flowing, black. He wants to ask who she is, but feels he should already know her. He searches his mind for her name, or to recall the shape of her face, the color of her eyes. Even in shadow, without being able to see her face, he senses her urgency. She needs to tell him something. She needs him to do something. Something very important—

“Ere!” This time the voice is whispered and sharp, punctuated by strong hands gripping his shoulders. He is wrapped in a blanket, curled up in his corner of the main sleeping room in the Franklin Commune. His dream dissipates like a lifting fog as his mother shakes him awake.

“What is it?” He asks, forcing alertness in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

Her voice is a loaded weapon: “Syns.”

And with that, she’s gone.

Whenever the Syns appeared, his mother disappeared. Ruth Fell would defend her people to the death, but only in an extreme emergency. Outside of an outright attack, she simply vanished, resurfacing only when the Syns departed. This was never explained to Ere; it was just the way things were.

Uncle Howard used to be the one who represented the tribe when a Syn approached. Interactions with the Syns had not been violent in quite some time, but they were never pleasant. Most often, when a Syn approached an Original tribe, it was to deliver an eviction notice, informing them that the tribe’s camp was being developed for Syn territory expansion. But there is always the threat of something worse than a simple eviction notice. Ere’s heart stutters at the thought.

“Ere.” Cal stands in the doorway, fingers resting lightly on the knife at his side.

“Who’s going to speak to the Syns?”

“Helena,” Cal says.

“But she’s so old—”

“Younger than Uncle Howard was.”

“Yes, but…”

Cal gestures for his cousin to stop speaking. “I’m going to stand guard, while she talks.”

“Should I get my knife—”

“You should never be without your knife.” Cal snaps. “Get it. And stay in here. Don’t come out unless I call you.”

Embarrassed at how relieved he is at these instructions, Ere nods. He pulls his leather knife holster tight around his thigh. He curses himself, silently swearing that he will never again be caught without a weapon. He follows Cal as far as the window, then crouches, peering just above the sill, to watch Cal guard Helena Garrison.

Helena is already standing in the field in front of the Commune. Cal approaches her rapidly, but as he draws near, Helena raises a hand.

“Further back, boy,” Helena calls out in a voice shaky with age but firm in its command. Ere can barely hear her. “Keep your distance. You can watch from right where you are.”

Cal wants to argue, but Helena’s seniority forbids him. He halts, keeping his fingers on his knife and his eyes on Helena.

Helena Garrison is one of the eldest of the Elders, somewhere around eighty-eight, though exact dates were hard for the Originals to keep up with these days; a few months ago she referred to this year as her piano year, which made her contemporaries smile at a joke only they understood. Ere and Cal, who had never seen a piano, went blank at this reference, which wiped the smiles from the elders’ faces.

Ere is amazed at how Helena holds her ground as the Syns exit their ship and stride toward her. One Syn is clearly the leader of the group. He looks as they all look, polished and svelte and cold. But there is something else about him. Ere squints, and realizes that this Syn looks somewhat like Louie Garrison, Helena’s son, who passed away some years ago. From the subtle tilt of her head, Ere can tell that Helena is noticing this as well.

Louie, a wonderful storyteller, prankster, and great favorite in the tribe, died suddenly of a heart condition. That’s what they thought, at least; one morning when out scouting for water, he simply crumpled to the ground and never got up. Now this Syn stands there with the same hairline, the same posture. The resemblance makes Ere’s heart twist, and he can only imagine what it did to Helena. The Syns were sometimes able to do this: know something intimate about a tribe or tribesperson, and send someone who would unsettle them based on that knowledge.

Or maybe it’s just coincidence.

The Louie-like-Syn appears thirty, which means nothing. Small but fit, a solid little package of a person, dressed all in gray, with a neatly trimmed mustache and close-cropped hair. Eyebrow arched, he swiftly closes the distance between himself and the wrinkled old woman.

“Greetings,” he says, brightly. He speaks loudly, possibly assuming the old woman is hard of hearing; Ere is glad that at least it allows him to hear what’s going on. As Helena draws near, the Syn’s jaw drops. Whether he is genuinely shocked by her appearance, or simply mocking her to further catch her off guard, the Syn’s next statement makes Ere’s own jaw drop. “Heaven and Hell, you’re a skeleton with skin.”

“High praise from a robot,” Helena says, unblinking.

“Ooh, good one,” he chuckles, maybe admiring her moxie, maybe genuinely amused that she would fling that old insult his way. “How old are you, anyway, Original woman?”

“I’m sure your records can tell you that,” Helena says.

The Syn grins waxily. “Helena Garrison, right? I’m Fredrick.” He offers his name with a careless wave of his hand, as his eyes slide to the left and scans her records. He quotes from them aloud, looking not at her but at something only he can see: “Ah yes, here we are. Garrison, Helena. Eighty-nine years of natural age. Born in Sector 17, formerly Ohio. Family history of high blood pressure, heart disease, and multiple types of cancer: breast, lung, pancreatic. Son, Louis Miles Garrison, died of assumed congestive heart failure, 2057. Husband, Robert Garrison, died in the resistance. Remaining relatives: none. Current health status: undocumented; no hospital visits since the Health Reallocation Act of 2045. Projected prognosis: Death within the year.”

Helena remains stoic throughout this recitation. Frederick the Syn slides his eyes to the right again, then smiles that smile at Helena.

“That’s you? Or did I look up the wrong Helena Garrison?”

“That’s me.”

“And you are leader of this tribe now?”

“I will speak for this tribe.”

“Bet you can guess why I’m here,” he says, almost playfully, a sick parody of Louie.

“I assume you’re about to kick us out.”

“You assume correctly.”

“It makes no sense,” says the old woman. “By your own standards, this area is worthless. Perhaps you’re unaware, but there are few power sources here. None functioning. No reason for an evacuation. We are old. I’m dead within the year, as you said yourself. Let us live out our days here.”

From his position behind the window, Ere is straining to catch the words, certain he is missing something here and there. But he is impressed with Helena’s poise and clear, loud voice. He never before noticed her impeccable posture. He feels proud of her and almost expects the Syn to acquiesce to her request that the tribe be allowed to stay.

“Your information is incomplete, and thereby inaccurate,” Fredrick says, matter-of-fact. “There is nothing of which we are ‘unaware.’ There are many power lines buried in the vicinity, and this building itself has several rooms which will be useful to us in resurrecting the utility of this sector. Nice try, though.”

“We ask that you consider—”

“We consider everything before we decide anything,” the Syn cuts Helena off, no longer even bothering to look at her. Instead, he shoots an almost flirtatious look over at Cal. “And you don’t all have one foot in the grave, now, do you?” Helena opens her mouth to speak, but before even a syllable can escape, the Syn waves his hand again to silence her and keeps talking: “Your evacuation is effective immediately. Migration begins today. Head south, if you want the opportunity for a new camp. Everything north of here is marked for incorporation.”

“South,” Helena says slowly.

“South,” confirms Fredrick, drawing the word out, giving it a ludicrous amount of syllables. “Oh, and while we aren’t particularly interested in expediting your demise, if you decide not to leave, we’ll go ahead and kill you. All right! That’s all.”

The Syn nods, message delivered, and turns on his heel. Helena stares after him, immediately flanked by a scowling Cal. There is nothing more to say. The days of resistance are long passed. The days of marching, not into battle but into retreat, are all that remain.

And just like that, another migration is underway.

Curse of the world.

The sheer mind-numbing boredom begins crushing Ere immediately. Each migration day might bring one isolated interesting incident (a rattlesnake, say) surrounded on both sides by an entire day and night of tedium.

But Ere’s boredom pales as a complaint in comparison to the toll the trip takes on the elders. Crossing uneven terrain, sleeping in makeshift tents, exposed to the elements—nothing about the journey was kind to the aged. Covering twenty miles a day is taxing on the young, but brutal on the old.

They are bound for the swampland known as Sector 27, as far south as you could go before hitting the ocean. Sector 27 was largely neglected by the Syns, other than at its southernmost tip, a port area used by the Syns for business and travel; being such a hot and humid climate, the sector is not suited to serve as residential Syn territory.

Despite being free of resident Syns, Ere still isn’t sure that this direction is best. The swampy sector is home to many large predatory animals, which saw population surges after the Singularity, following the gutting of Original communities there. And slow-moving elders could easily be prey.

Ere walks at the very back of the group, alongside Cal. Though the young men are the tribe’s fastest, and could easily have ranged ahead, a better strategy was having them bring up the rear. From there, they could help any who stumbled, or sprint swiftly to the front to report if there was any danger at their heels, or respond if an alarm was sounded from ahead. The configuration is always Ruth in front, elders in the middle, Cal and Ere in the rear.

With Howard gone, the tribe numbers thirty-one. They almost never speak of their dwindling population aloud. It’s considered bad luck (and is depressing as hell, Ere thinks). Their small census was taken only before beginning a journey, so that throughout the trek, the two young men at the back of the line could constantly count heads, silently tallying to ensure that all were present and accounted for throughout the journey and at the end of each day.

Ere can see his mother all the way at the head of the line, despite more than two dozen bodies between them, since the older tribes-people are all so bent and stooped. Even when he can’t see her, he sees the glint of his mother’s machete, held aloft and brought swiftly down, hacking away the terrain to clear the path for those in her wake. Ere sees the machete slash the air again, and then come up—and stay up.

Everyone stops, this visual cue of an alarm followed quickly by a verbal one as a sound passes quickly, from the front of the line to the back: shh, see.

Shh, see. Shh, see. A threat.

Holding still, Ere strains to see and hear, desperate to pinpoint the danger. His eyes find Cal, whose nostrils flare. Both boys keep their hands on their knives, poised and at the ready. Each knows the other’s guilty secret: they are thrilled to have something happening, and while they don’t want anyone to get hurt they sure as hell won’t mind a little action.

Cal and Ere know that Ruth will swiftly identify the threat. Ruth Fell hasn’t survived this long by overlooking anything. They watch as she holds stock still, listening. Ere strains his ears, darts his eyes, but beyond the damp hum of thick humidity and the looming greenery all around them, he perceives nothing. The absence of a telling sound, sight, or smell is alarming—but then, almost imperceptibly, Ruth Fell’s head tilts up. Ere follows her gaze, and there it is, directly above this machete-wielding mother: a massive cat.

The cat is black, with huge paws housing sharp claws and moss-green eyes that seem to Ere to be trained not on his mother, but past her. He looks at where the big cat has fixed its stare: on the smaller, older, weaker prey standing behind Ruth.

Helena.

Ere hears Cal exhale, and knows his cousin has reached the same conclusion. Both of them are prepared to run to the front, to pull the cat off Helena if it pounces, to do their part—but before they can move, they are stopped by a mighty roar.

The sound comes not from the cat, but from Ere’s mother.

It is not a scream; there is no shrillness to the sound, no fear, no alarm. It is a booming battle cry, a roar sending an unmistakable message to the giant cat. Ere hears the challenge as clearly as if his mother shouted the actual words.

We outnumber you. We are not prey. We are a pack. You are alone.

If you attack, we will defend. And we will destroy you.

Ruth’s roar fills the swamp, reverberating through every member of the tribe, soaking into the heady trees. Everyone holds their ground, unflinching. Ere’s ears ring with the sound of his mother’s bloodcurdling cry, but he does not flinch. He stands still at the opposite side of the pack. He is ready to leap into action at any second to enforce the resounding howl’s promised war, and he knows his cousin will be beside him.

The cat’s green eyes flash from Helena to Ruth, then travel the length of the stiff-necked people. Ruth’s cry goes on unbroken, aided by a primal power, her breath never running out. No cough cuts her short. Her howl is sustained and strong.

The massive feline flattens its ears, taking in the unrelenting sound. It hisses, shifts, then sits back on its haunches, almost seeming to nod: fine, I’ll wait for an easier meal, you stupid woman. Wasn’t that hungry anyway.

Ruth ends her yell, but does not stop staring at the giant cat. The big cat closes his eyes, yawns, feigning boredom, as if to indicate that such a fight was beneath him. Only then does Ruth lower her hand, and move forward again.

“Cal,” whispers Ere a few hours later. “Does everyone seem tired to you?”

Cal, a few paces ahead of Ere, is carrying Helena Garrison, who stumbled not long before. Her knee twisted, and thus (under protest) she is allowing Cal to carry her. For the first half-mile, she kept assuring Cal she would soon be on her own two feet. Now she’s sleeping, snoring lightly, secure in the strong arms of her tribe’s gentle giant.

“Yes,” grunts Cal. “Glad you and your big brain figured that one out for us. Someday, runt, you’ll have to tell me how such a tiny body can lug around such a giant brain.”

“Talk to my mother. Tell her we should make camp.”

“Me? You’re a little more… un-burdened at the moment.” To prove his point, Cal shifts Helena in his arms, cradling the old woman like a drowsing baby.

“She won’t listen to me. She’ll think I’m being a baby.”

“You are.”

“I’m not. Everyone’s exhausted. You’re already carrying Helena. How many more can you carry before—”

“Fine. When Helena wakes up, I’ll talk to Ruth.”

Helena opens one eye, and aims it up at Cal. “Oh, put me down, you big brute, and go talk to Ruth. My ankle’s feeling better. I can last another few steps if we’re stopping soon.”

Cal sighs and sets Helena gingerly on the ground, ever gentle with the fragile elders around him. She reaches up to pat his chest affectionately.

“Ere!” Cal turns and lifts a bushy eyebrow.

Ere looks at him questioningly. “What?”

“I’ll ask, but you’re coming with me.”

“But what about the back of the line—”

“I’ll scream if there’s trouble! Scream twice if it’s a snake!” Helena chirps cheerily, waving, as if a delightful encounter with a charming snake would be just dandy by her.

They reach Ere’s mother in moments, quickly overtaking all the tired elders, who are moving at the approximate speed of a dying turtle.

“Aunt Ruth?”

Ruth Fell glances behind her, looking first up at her nephew and then down at her son. She does not stop walking nor slow her pace, but does also quickly scan the rest of the line behind her to make sure there was not a problem.

“Yes, Cal?”

“We should set up camp for the night.”

“We have another hour of daylight, maybe more. We’re far enough south that—”

“Forget daylight,” says Cal. “The elders are tired. And I can’t carry them all at once.”

Ruth stops, holding her hand aloft, open-palmed, not clenched in alert. Cal halts, and raises his as well. One by one, hands raise from the front of the line to the end, signaling a stop but not danger. A collective sigh of relief passes softly through the line along with the outstretched hands.

“Fine,” Ruth says. “But if Ere thinks he’s tired now, he’s going to be exhausted by the time he’s done collecting the water for all of us tonight.”

“What-!” Ere starts to protest, but his mother cuts him off.

“Don’t send your cousin to make your requests for you,” she chides him. “And make sure to collect plenty of water, son. I’m parched.”