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.
Chapter 4: Ere
Ere loves funerals. He doesn’t love death, of course. Death is an enemy that invades too often, too quickly—or worse yet, arrives early and lingers, killing members of his tribe brutally and slowly. But in Ere’s mind, funerals are to death as spring is to winter: one follows the other, completely usurping it. Where death is cold, funerals are warm. Ere loves the collective energy of so many people, so close to one another, forced to make room for one another. Hands brushing hands as the mourners pressed together to remember the individual now gone.
But the best thing about funerals is the other tribes that show up for them. Because other tribes arriving might mean, maybe just maybe, meeting a girl his own age.
A girl who might have a beautiful smile and soft skin. A girl who might somehow miraculously notice him before she noticed Cal. A girl who might be so weary and dusty from her journey, she might need to take off all her clothes and bathe in the stream before—
A rasping cough interrupts Ere’s fantasy, slicing into the slim slab of hope and filleting it into fine strands of familiar fear. The cough is his mother’s, and the sound makes his own throat tighten.
Ere looks around to see where she is and how she’s holding up It’s still early; after an unrelenting night of rain, a reluctant sunrise was finally yawning its way up, unfurling into a dull but expansive sky, heavy and low, the dull color of a dead tooth.
He can’t see his mother; there are too many people between them. The crowd clusters, speaking in hushed tones, waiting. Going up on his tip-toes, Ere scans the scene and finally spots her. Ruth’s hand covers her mouth, briefly; she drops it before anyone can see her suppress the brutal coughs.