He stayed and he prayed.
He fought and he taught.
He knew and he grew.
And here the eulogy becomes its own song, departing from the opening melody and abandoning any describable melodic pattern or key, soaring past structure, rising and falling and so musical as to lift the assembled into a higher sort of awareness, coming from someplace or Someone more ancient and omniscient than Ere’s powerful mother—
He fought and he taught.
He knew and he grew.
He stayed! He prayed!
He knew the Original strength.
He chose the Original way.
He kept us intact and he kept us in touch.
His blood stayed warm when the world went cold.
He kept moving forward, unafraid to grow old.
He lived to a hundred! A hundred years! A gift!
His life is a prayer, and he a soothsayer,
and together we say—
And together they said: Amen.
Story-songs, rhythmic remembrances shaped by fresh mourning, leave Ere breathless. They assault everyone with emotion, laying bare all the raw grief and love and fierce grit of their people. This story-song also triggers something else for Ere: a wild jealousy. He longs to know more about the fantastical details included in the lyrics, the world of tame dogs, cinemas and symphonies and exotic meals from other countries.
Before his mind began unraveling, Uncle Howard had described all of these things to him, in great detail. The aroma of curry, the bright colors of cultivated flower gardens, the feeling of silk. He found a way to convey what these things had been like. His memories were so strong, they were practically transmittable. He gave as much from his memory as he could, for as long as he could, to his sons, daughters, nieces, nephews, all of them.
Preserving joy, Howard told Ere and Cal, time and again, as he tantalized them with tales of a world now lost to them, is as important as preserving or destroying anything else.
The story-song concluded, Ere’s mother comes to stand with Cal and Ere. Cal steps aside, and Ruth stands between them. She stands erect, taller than Ere but shorter than Cal. Her eyes are rimmed red, but remain dry as sun-stretched linen. She won’t cry in front of anyone. But she trembles slightly, jaw tightening, and Ere knows she’s suppressing another coughing spell.
The memorial concludes with words from an ancient psalm. Shared at one time by many communities of people, it remains the Original’s prayer for the dead, always intoned in unison:
The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.
He causes me to lie down in green pastures.
He leads me beside still waters.
He restores my Soul…
Ere knows the words so well, he says them without thinking, his mind traveling instead back into his earlier fantasies as he scans his surroundings, searching for girls. He is taking in the small signs of mourning—the bowed heads, the stooped shoulders, the watery faraway eyes—when the thought occurs to him: someday, he would have a funeral.
…through the valley of the Shadow of Death,
I shall fear no evil, for You are with me,
Your rod and your staff…
How has this thought never occurred to him before? In his own short life, Ere has already attended dozens of funerals. But somehow, before this one, funerals always seemed reserved for others. Something from a world that ended before his own life began. Going to a foreign country, or hearing the symphony, or falling in love—these things do not exist for Ere the way they existed for his ancestors. There is no more path leading to the sort of life his great-uncle led.
…and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord…
It strikes Ere that unlike curry or cinemas, death was not something he would miss out on. His death is inevitable. Plain as anything, he suddenly sees that although he won’t get to walk the same paths as his ancestors, he’ll still reach the same damn destination. He’ll die. He’ll die, and his funeral will have the world’s most boring story-song—no; not even that. He won’t have a funeral.
No one will be left to mourn for him, because in all likelihood, he is the youngest not only in his tribe, but also in the entire Original world. Unless Cal outlives him, Ere will be the last of his kind. Ere can see it stretching ominously ahead of him, the whole horrible future, like a story he’s already been told.
…forever.
Beside him, unable to hold it back any longer, his mother begins coughing again.
Chapter 5: Ever
Tik, tik. Tik tik tik.
Ever taps the solid steel port of her left pointer finger impatiently on the bedside table. The table is dark wood, secured in place by several screws connecting it to the matching bed. Everything in this stupid boat-bedroom is dark wood, lightweight, and screwed into place. It’s not at all nautical; the bolted-down-furniture and minimalist-décor makes the room seem more like a fancy jail cell. Ever increases the pace of her agitated tapping, maintaining the rhythm, hoping it will lull her into some sort of meditative state. Or at least irritate her mother.
Tik, tik. Tik tik tik. Tiktiktiktiktik.
Despite decades of its presence, the chunk of metal which replaced her original fingertip still feels foreign. It inhabits her flesh like an invader occupies a territory, claiming it as its own without belonging there. The temperature never matches the rest of her body—it’s always much colder, regulated by the synthetic component cooling system. The only time her finger warms is during her nightly upload; the port connection creating a snug, hot little bed for the unnatural part of her hand. She shuts down during the overnight data transfer, as all Syns do, only noticing the lingering heat when she wakes up each morning. The warmth is fleeting, the cooling system swiftly returning her finger to cold, hard steel.
She’s lucky to have a finger port—a third generation development. Technically, Ever is a late second-generation Syn, but her father ensured that the freshly-approved prototypes for the third and final Syn generation were secured for her: enhanced skin cell regeneration, faster mode shifting, and the coveted finger port.
Her parents both have first generation spinal ports, located at the base of their neck. That’s why her mother’s honeyed hair is always kept in that tight chignon knotted at her nape, revealing the sleek sides of her neck while hiding her port (she feels “too exposed” if someone catches a glimpse of her tech). Her father’s port is always hidden, too, by his bulky lab jackets and stiff collars, but that’s incidental. He’s proud of his port. Her parents had no social reasons to be embarrassed by their spinal hardware. If anything, being first generation confirmed high social standing. However, it was considered uncouth to display old ports in mixed company.
Tik, tik. Tik tik tik.Tiktiktiktiktik…
Ever’s mother hates it when Ever taps her port, but so far there’s been no reaction today. So Ever drums a little harder, wanting the sound to be inescapable, wanting to punish her mother for this horrible wasted