Читать книгу Original Syn - Beth Kander - Страница 9

It’s not hyperbole to say that Ever Hess is the most beautiful girl in the world; it’s verified fact. Her beauty has been confirmed via multiple assessments examining symmetry, proportions, dermal surface integrity, and every other objective measure of beauty.

As she likes to put it, pretty much everyone wants to bang her. (Old world vernacular is amazing; bang is such a satisfying expression.)

Ever’s beauty is certified, and continually cultivated. She doesn’t rest on the generous laurels of genetics and mechanical enhancements. She is a devout believer in daily doses of Vitamin D, and worships at the altar of excellent moisturizer. Her flawless skin is neither pale nor tawny, but a perfect glowing shade of health. Her eyes are large, brown, rimmed above and below with heavy black lashes. She is delicately bird-boned and just curvy enough. No knobbed knees or sharp elbows; she is rounded where softness is pleasing, toned where strength is desirable.

It’s all by design. Ever was preserved at the moment of physical perfection, just past any trace of awkward adolescence but nowhere near the realm of graying, stiffening, wrinkling. She was suspended in that fleeting moment that passed her peers swiftly and irretrievably, while they were too busy lamenting their flaws to notice their beauty before it was gone.

In the old world, people somehow thought beauty was subjective. There were all these weird theories, like “different people peak at different times.” Bizarre claims about how some people crave thick thighs, others lust for lean legs, some really do prefer darker skin or lighter eyes or smallness or fullness or ski-jump noses or freckles—there’s no one way to be beautiful!

Ever’s pretty sure that whoever came up with all that crap must have been ugly.

Committed as she is to the preservation of her looks, Ever is equally dedicated to the innovation of her “look.” She likes to shake things up; her hair color is her favorite variable. She’s a redhead this week. Changing the hue weekly has been a ritual ever since she first turned seventeen, a few decades ago. She’s tried literally thousands of colors over the years. It’s hard to distinguish Shining Cinnamon #347 from Shimmering Paprika #2,012, but each marginally-different color represents something scarce and thereby sacred: the ability to change.

She knows that her constant craving for altering her appearance stems from a strong rebellious streak, goaded on by a lifetime of living in a world where change and progress were celebrated while she herself was firmly locked in and told not to change a thing.

She is almost as self-aware as she is self-obsessed.

(But not quite.)

Ever strolls the deck of her family’s boat, back straight, head high. A decade of dance lessons perfected her posture, and the voice of her strict, sleek ballet teacher still echoes in her mind, chiding her to be mindful of her movement.

“Remember, ballerinas,” the instructor would intone in her thick Russian accent, hard and violent with her consonants as she raised her pencil-thin eyebrows and sucked in her already-flat stomach. “A dancer is always carrying herself well. A dancer remains a dancer wherever she goes, even just on the sidewalk, even in the dark. Every movement, it is a dance.”

Recalling this reprimand, as Ever leans over the side of the boat she flattens her back, tightens her midsection, summons the old technique. Even the clothing she wears evokes her ballerina days—black, slimming as a leotard, the sleek fabric smoothing itself over her trim figure. She hopes the Russian dance teacher would be pleased with her look. No way of knowing: the woman has been dead for years.

Sometimes Ever thinks it would be preferable to be dead and well-remembered, which seems much easier than remaining alive and alluring.

“Ever!”

She closes her eyes, as if her lids might somehow block out the sound. There’s no need to respond, as her mother knows exactly where she is, and could just as easily have sent a message rather than screeching like a harpy. Calling out for one’s child is a leftover function, archaic and useless, like looking at one’s wrist when someone asked what time it was; gestures often outlive the objects or tasks that inspire them.

Ever fights her mother’s noise with silence. It’s a tactical move. Predictably, to continue the cold war they both insist on prolonging, Ever’s mother comes out to the deck to meet her stubborn child on their latest battlefield.

Marilyn Hess is striking, though not as perfectly-crafted as her daughter. Her hair hovers between blonde and brunette, chemically maintained but never varied, always pulled back in a low chignon. She displays just a hint of middle-age, given away by the soft impressions around her eyes and mouth that form when she frowns, little lines in her face drawing the blueprints for where wrinkles would eventually have appeared. Her high cheekbones and long arms give her the illusion of being taller than she actually is, but she’s tall enough to tower over the petite Ever.

“You know it’s time for dinner, and you know how I hate waiting on you.”

Ever aims luminous eyes at her mother, feigning innocence. “I’m not as late as Daddy.”

Marilyn’s thin lips press together so tightly they nearly disappear, but she manages to shove a few terse words through them.

“We’re not talking about your father. And don’t call him Daddy. You’re not a child.”

“Then stop treating me like one, Marilyn,”

Her mother stiffens further, something Ever wouldn’t have guessed possible; a sudden jerking movement like that might just snap the stick up her ass. Ever almost laughs, picturing splinters throughout her mother’s spine and synthetic system. Something flickers in the older woman’s eyes before she drops the bomb Ever knew was coming but still hoped might not fall.

“Your father won’t be joining us on this vacation..”

“Of course he won’t,” Ever’s voice is ice, each cold word seeming to steam in the sweaty tropical air. “That might give the impression he cares about us.”

“Ever—”

“No, really,” Ever says, voice thick with sarcasm. “Work should come ahead of family. Let’s console ourselves knowing that the work he’s doing is so ground-breaking. The whole world waits with bated breath. Thank Heaven he hasn’t vacationed in God knows how long.”

God knows how long is, in fact, hyperbole. For Ever, and all Syns, there’s virtually nothing she can’t remember just as well as any god. A quick scan of her memory and she could summon perfect recall for every moment of the last time he had joined them: The Greece trip, a decade ago. That vacation, perennially fresh in her mental archives, was the last trip she enjoyed.

Greece was a land of pillars and layers, all of its structures vibrating with the stories of the rise and fall of civilizations. It was a land of philosophy and culture, cursed now to stand as a sad memorial, testifying to the fallibility of all cultures. All that high-and-mighty-history-buff stuff her father loved was kind of boring, but Greece itself wasn’t; she loved every preserved pile of rocks, every rebuilt-temple, and all those stunning statues of alabaster nudes.

Oh, those statues! Pale stone men and women, proudly naked, blank eyes gazing into the distance. Ever loved the statues, shameless remnants of a time where hidden things were rarely so easily revealed and assessed. (She especially loved finding the statues whose genitalia had snapped off. So sad—perfect alabaster cheekbones, gorgeous torso, and then shockingly blunt trauma: a tragic little stump memorializing the missing dong. Being a statue had its drawbacks—hilarious, hilarious drawbacks.)

In Greece, they had one day explored the Acropolis, the next day Olympia, and then Crete, the site of a great battle in the Original War. Ever loved venturing into these uninhabited lands, far beyond the borders of the Incorporated Sectors. These old abandoned countries retained their pre-war names. Greece, Spain, France, Italy, so many other delicious monikers. They had also retained their pre-war uniqueness. Even without any Original residents left, the lands themselves clung to history. It was not like that in the Incorporated Sectors.

The lncorporated Sectors (formerly known as the United States) was devastated in the uprisings. The Originals targeted metropolitan centers, and many once-great cities fell. Syn strongholds like New York were heavily protected and survived the onslaught. Once the Original threat had been subdued, and all surviving Originals exiled from city centers, the Incorporated Sectors emerged where all the great American infrastructure had its firmest footholds. In the aftermath of the global war, the Incorporated Sectors became the sole global power in the post-Singularity world.

Throughout the once-united-nation, rural areas went entirely fallow. Anything damaged went unrepaired in areas outside of the Incorporated Sectors; power sources and all resources were diverted to the Syn centers. The abandoned expanses became the unofficial Diaspora lands of those barbaric Originals. There weren’t any Originals in Greece, though. Only monuments to a people whose day had passed.

Costa Rica is nothing like Greece. Similarly devoid of Original inhabitants, where Greece was a land of architecture and artistic renderings of what once-was, Coast Rica was a lush land of opportunistic life—birds, snakes, shrieking monkeys, exotic plants. Ever had looked forward to seeing the natural beaches, the rainforests, the wildlife. She had been naïve enough to think maybe she would get to explore and experience something real, and instead her father wasn’t coming and Ever was thereby not even going to be allowed to step foot off the damn boat.

If her father was there, he would take her off the boat. But he wasn’t here, and the mere idea of adventure made the already pale Marilyn Hess go as white as a Grecian alabaster nude. Ever’s mother is a woman who prefers to stay on boats and stay on-schedule. She’s been even more of a stickler about that lately, insisting on dinner at six fifteen, every single day.

“You’re still required at dinner, whether or not your father is here,” her mother intones. “Angela prepared local seafood. It’s incredibly fresh—she caught it this morning. You could fish with her tomorrow, if you want.”

Ever forces a flat smile. “Fantastic. I’d been looking forward to seeing the local wildlife thriving in its natural habitat, but I guess we’ll settle for killing and eating it instead.”

“Ever,” her mother sighs. If Ever had to guess, her mother ran out of patience with her about three decades ago, maybe four. “Access Heaven’s VR rainforest program if you want to learn more about—”

“I don’t want to learn about,” Ever snaps. “I want to learn from. I don’t want to access. I want to experience. I want to get off the damn boat. But oh shit, look! It’s six-fourteen! I’d hate to throw us off schedule.” She pushes past her mother, calling for their maid: “Angela? Angela! I’m coming down there. Did you keep the fish heads? I’d like to see them before you throw them away. I’m excited to finally get to see the beautiful Costa Rican wildlife I keep hearing about!”

Without awaiting a reply, Ever stomps her way down to the lower level, passing Angela en route. She hears Angela say to Marilyn, with something like sympathy: “Fifty years parenting a teenager. Never gets easier?”

“Worse than purgatory,” Ever hears her mother say.

And for once, Ever agrees with her.