Irritated, Ere seizes control of the conversation, steering it to a sober place by asking coldly: “How is Uncle Howard?”
Cal’s laughter ceases as his expression darkens. “The same.”
“So it’s bad.”
Cal nods. For three days the Original leader has been barely conscious. Hot to the touch, eyes closed, moaning, calling for his long-dead wife, Sophie; the great man has been reduced to a shell of himself. He recognizes no one save his niece Ruth (Ere’s mother), and even his recognition of her is intermittent. When the fever abates, he knows her; as his temperature rises, his cognition drops.
Weary but fiercely loyal Ruth has not left his side, holding cool rags to his forehead, talking to him in hushed, soothing tones, caring for the man who has cared for them all.
“Well. Let’s get the water.”
With that, the young men head for the nearby well, where they will draw the water, boil it over an open fire, and drink it despite knowing it’s tainted.
All water systems are infected, thanks to the Syns. Even when boiled, the water will continue damaging the Originals, at best lowering their immune system, at worst slowly poisoning them. But the other option is “don’t drink water.” So they boil the water, drink it, and hope for the best.
The Syns must still feel threatened by the Originals, Ere realizes; threatened enough to continue tampering with the water. But why? He rolls this thought around as he and Cal walk from the commune to the nearby well.
The Franklin Commune was once a school. A long, low, brick building, with hallways and many rooms. Some rooms were uninhabitable, but the brick bones of the building were sound. Electricity hadn’t snapped through the building in years, but its old stoves could be safely stuffed with wood and left burning for hours, good for cooking and for warmth.
Best of all was the small internal quadrangle, surrounded by those solid brick walls, providing a safe place for the tribe to step outside and enjoy the sunshine while still protected. A yard, the elders called it. They spent hours tending to plants there, digging their fingers into the soil and coaxing new life from it. They planted a garden, anticipating vegetables they could cultivate rather than relying on wild berries and plants to be sought and gathered.
They arrived at Franklin almost a year ago, last summer, just as Ere turned seventeen. The tribe had traveled three punishing weeks. Uncle Howard developed a noticeable limp, which he tried to hide. When the plain, promising walls of the lumbering old brick building came into view the entire tribe rejoiced; at least for a time, they had a place they could all call home.
In addition to its sound structure, Franklin was remote. Surrounded by fields on all sides, with no neighboring factories or Syn power plants, the Syns had either never noticed it or written it off as too old to bother acquiring. This added to the dignity of the sprawling old place; like its new inhabitants, it was an under-estimated survivor. There were no holes in the roof, most windows were unbroken, and a few proud rusted metal letters still clung to the exterior:
B N M N FRANKLIN EL T RY C O L
This old house of learning seemed as if it had been waiting for them. There was even a well-stocked freebox that greeted them in the main entrance when they first arrived.
Freeboxes are one of the ways Originals help each other. In the post-Singularity world, it became arduous to make new shirts, shoes, underwear, soaps, all the once-common daily items. But most of those things lasted a long time, and once-upon-a-time, factories produced more than people really needed. Overstock, they called it in the old world. Years ago, Originals looted overstock centers, taking enough clothes and goods for themselves and then more, to leave behind in hidden boxes for other freedom fighters to find. In later years, as Original populations diminished, any still-usable clothes, toiletries, and other supplies left by those who passed on were tucked carefully into freeboxes for those who might still need them.
“Cal! Ere!”
A rending wail stops the boys in their tracks. Myrlie James is running through the field. She is moving impossibly fast for a woman her age, barreling toward the young men. Ere hasn’t seen Myrlie move at that speed since—well, ever. Glancing at Cal, Ere knows they share the same thought. The breathless old woman calls out the news before reaching them, forcing herself to get the words out while she can still form them, confirming their worst fear.
“He’s dead,” she rasps. “Howard Fell is dead.”
Chapter 2: Shadower
Three more bodies.
That’s what Shadower has to focus on: the cold hard fact of three cold hard corpses. Not the danger of this work. Not the implications of the evidence. Dissecting and disseminating what this information really means will be the next step, but right now, only the facts matter. Ensuring that accurate information is collected and conveyed. That’s it; that’s all.
It’s easy to get distracted, to start guessing ahead—and sometimes it’s vital to make those leaps, to try to stay one step ahead of the situation—but not until they know what the facts of the situation are. But leaping to conclusions can lead to falling off cliffs.
Stay focused: Three more bodies.
These bodies were nothing but conjecture moments ago, a rumor whispered fast and low, blowing quietly and quickly through the narrow cracks and crevices of the clandestine network. Repeated over and over, growing in incredulity even as it grew in certainty.
More bodies, we hear it’s three bodies, we think it’s three bodies, it’s three bodies.
Even Shadower was startled by this surge. Months ago, when they confirmed the first incident, it was startling: the unthinkable discovery of a discarded body of an apparently self-terminating Syn came out of nowhere.
Syns are supposed to live forever. That was the whole damn deal. The entire Synthetic movement was founded on the premise that with enough augmentation, upgrades, and all their enhancements—death could be not simply outrun but outdone. Eternal life was what they signed up for, what they schemed and fought and murdered for; self-termination was an abomination.
When the first body was confirmed, the clandestine network figured it was a fluke. With the second, they realized the fluke might have been more like a harbinger. And then with the third, and the fourth—
Stop. Focus: Three more bodies.
Shadower returns to the facts, reviewing them without speculation: The cadavers were Syns, each of whom had flat-lined on the Heaven monitors for unknown/unapproved reasons, immediately triggering a black-ops recovery of each body. Heaven’s army moved fast. Too fast even for Shadower. Within moments of flatlining, all three bodies were confiscated and incinerated, all physical remains erased and the electronic trail swept clean. Thanks to their own shared systems, Syn leaders knew that burning the bodies was not enough. To truly bury the evidence, they had to erase the electronic trail, too.
You can’t just discard the shell. You have to dig out the creature within, and make sure everything burns. And they managed to burn it all, real and virtual, with rapid speed. Almost fast enough to make it seem that nothing had ever happened. Almost.
But not quickly enough to prevent rumors, which were carried by increasingly quick spies who sent word to Shadower. So now, thank whatever God remained in this cold mechanical world, Shadower can confirm the rumors. Shadower can do so using the strange, singular ability to eavesdrop on the silent communications carried on electronic waves.
Pressed against a wall, coated in sweat but not dripping a drop, Shadower slides into position, port hovering near a public outlet. Not plugged in, not alerting the system to any presence, Shadower begins extracting data. Siphoning intelligence without actually connecting and revealing any specific identity: A ghost in the machine.
No one else can do this.
Even