The Legacy Human (Singularity #1) (Singularity Series)

by Susan Kaye Quinn

  Lies. All of it. But I know it will piss her off. The only person who loathes ascenders more than Cyrus is my mom. She makes an exception for Lenora, but only because she keeps me stocked with canvases and paint.

  “That’s absurd,” she says, half sitting up again. “She’s your patron. She should know that it takes time. You need more time.”

  “I know, but—”

  “No buts!” Her thin shoulders are starting to shake. “She made a promise when she took you on. She has to keep supporting you. That’s what being a patron means! She can’t just abandon you in the middle, right where you’re starting to come into your own. You’re at a critical stage, Elijah. You’re just beginning to reach your potential—”

  She’s getting too upset now. I put a hand on her arm, to slow her down. “She hasn’t said anything like that yet.”

  “But she promised,” my mom insists. Her voice is shaky but a little calmer. “How are you supposed to afford your supplies on Orion’s chit allowance?”

  “Exactly,” I say quickly, before she can ramp up again. “So, here’s the deal. This medicine Cyrus brought will help you. It’s not a cure, but it will at least help you fight it off for a little longer.” More lies. I’m desperate for this to finally be an actual cure. “And I need your help right now, to keep my position with Lenora, so I need you to stick around as long as possible.” The tears are coming again, so I hurry up to finish the pitch. “So just let Cyrus give you the meds, okay? I need this.”

  That last part is one hundred percent true.

  It’s always been just the two of us, me and my mom, all the time I was growing up. When Cyrus moved next door, I gained a brother, and she gained a son. But they’re all I have. Everything I’ve learned about art—about life—I learned from her. Before the sickness, she was the strongest, most beautiful, most caring person I knew. Even now, she’s dealt with all the endless days of her slowly dying body with more patience and stamina than I ever could. All my dreams of ascending and being worthy of Lenora are just that: fantasy. Right here, in the grimy reality of Seattle, all I really have is my mom, my best friend, and my art.

  I can’t let her give up.

  I know that’s what the icons and the gold tins and the men in her room are really all about: she’s ready to die. And I can’t let her do that. If I have to tell her lies to keep her fighting, I will. Because I’m going to fight for her. Me and Cyrus both. All the way to the end.

  She looks in my eyes for a moment, and I have the sense she’s seen through every lie to the truth: that I really do need her not to die, not now, not any time soon. She sits up the rest of the way and gives me a nod.

  The relief is like a gushing waterfall through my body, and in that moment, I’m sure this time it will work. This is the one. I want to hug her, but I don’t want her to change her mind. I grasp her hand instead, give it a gentle squeeze, then move back.

  Cyrus swoops in and has the syringe out in no time. “Okay, Mrs. B, you should probably lie back for this. I actually need to give you several small doses. It’s going to take a little while, so you might want to get comfortable. Maybe flip on the net? There’s a new show called the Secret Life of Household Bots that’s so incredibly stupid, I swear I snorted coffee out my nose when I was watching it last week.”

  She smiles and lays back, pushing up the sleeve of her shirt and offering him a vein.

  I scrap any plans I ever had of strangling Cyrus. I just might kiss him when he’s done. In the meantime, I back slowly out of the room, keeping it together until I can reach the hallway.

  I make it to my room before I let the silent sobs shake my body.

  It’s been two days, and I haven’t left the apartment.

  Our grocery allotment has been bot-delivered, and I haven’t wanted to leave my mom’s side, even to get those pastries she likes from the gray market. I’ve been either painting or keeping an eye on her. She’s always liked to watch me paint, and since I’m painting her, it works well. She gives me pointers, and I let her, even though I’ve mostly outgrown her help these last two years under Lenora’s tutelage. But it reminds me of the million other times when my mother and I sat, side by side, her canvas covered in art as beautiful as she was, mine splashed with a childish attempt to keep up.

  If nothing else, I’m glad she’s seen me come this far.

  Most of the time she sleeps, and then her face relaxes into angelic smoothness. I try to capture that innocence on the canvas—I lighten the dark circles under her eyes, keep some of the red flush of her fever, diffuse her face with a soft glow that draws the eye and makes it lift from a background that’s swirled with the darkness of her disease.

  Sometimes I lose track of time, and when I look over at the bed, she’s lying too still. I have to resist waking her, just to make sure she’s okay. I watch for the slow rise and fall of her chest, holding my own breath until I’m sure she’s still with me. Then I return to creating a healthy version of her that restores the beauty ravaged by her disease.

  Acrylics are unforgiving, with a limited amount of time to work before it dries, so I go through a lot of canvases before I get it right. This last piece is as good as I can make. Better than almost anything I’ve done before, at least while conscious. I walk away from it, afraid I might be tempted to mar it, chasing perfection. I should take it to Lenora, but I spend extra time cleaning my brushes instead, pinning them up to dry next to the new ones I bought from the girl on the tram. Maybe after this treatment, my mom will feel up to painting again. When I’m done stowing my paints, I clean the kitchen, even though we’ve hardly eaten anything. By the time I’m rearranging the boxes in my mom’s closet, I realize I’m stalling.

  I step quietly to my mother’s bed and touch the back of my fingers lightly to her forehead. She’s still feverish, and it’s getting worse. Cyrus says that’s a good sign. Her immune system is in a furious battle with the leukemia. But all I see is the dampness turning her fine blonde hair dark as her body tries to cool the fires of the fight within. I don’t want to leave her, but Lenora is expecting me for our tutoring session. And I have a new painting for her now. I’m not sure if I can bear to give it over… but I’ll need the chits for more meds soon. Even if this round works. Especially if it works. My mom will need follow-up care to ensure the disease is gone for good.

  A soft tone from the front room says Cyrus is here. I tell the building bot to let him in.

  I’m still standing by my mom when he quietly shuffles into the bedroom.

  He hovers just behind me. For a moment, he’s silent. Then he asks, “How’s she doing?”

  “I don’t know if I can go, Cy.”

  “She’ll be fine. Go do your painting thing with your patron. I got this covered.”

  I turn to him, still uncertain.

  “Go on, get out of here.” He throws a thumb over his shoulder. “I didn’t take the afternoon off to look at your sorry face.”

  I give him a grim smile and glance at my mom. “Message me if anything changes.”

  Cyrus doesn’t answer, just lifts a chair from the end of the bed and sets it quietly next to the head. He settles into it, waving me out of the room. Not wanting to wake her with any more conversation, I leave.

  The tram ride is silent. The clouds brood over downtown, threatening the mostly vacant towers with more rain. I hold the painting of my mom in my lap, isolating it from the vibrations of the tram. The travel case Lenora bought for my mid-sized works probably cost more than two months chit-allowance all by itself. And that’s cheap compared to the meds. I’ll have to sell this painting of my mom, even though the idea makes my stomach clench. I tell myself I can always paint another one. At least I know Lenora will hold onto it. And at the rates she’s willing to pay, I should be able to afford any meds my mom needs.

  When I reach Lenora’s house, I wind through the lush vegetation that crowds the outside walk. Peeking between the heaping branches of the trees is a commanding view of the Olympic mountains in th
e distance. The tranquil beauty of it settles into me. I understand why Lenora made her studio almost entirely from glass and set it up in the clouds.

  The building bot knows me, so I state my name, and it slides the front door open. I find her in the studio, and for the first time in days, a smile cracks my face.

  She’s bent over a vase of roses, face buried in the yellow blooms, fingers spread through the petals and stems, each seeking some kind of contact. She’s smelling them, sensing them, getting drunk on whatever the myriad sensations are that she can draw out of a simple bunch of flowers. A swirl of pale yellow color seems to leach from the flower petals straight into her fingers, and her whole bodyform is flushing with waves of golden-red. A stray beam of sunlight falls on her arm, sending flashes of sunfire skittering across her skin as it reacts to the heat.

  I’ve never seen anything like it, so I keep quiet and watch.

  She has no hair today, no costumes. Her feet are bare, and her normal lightweight shift hangs from her shoulders and hugs her curves—the filmy fabric is standard wear for ascenders. It must have some property that interacts with their skin. Every square inch of their bodyforms absorbs a full spectrum of heat, light, sound, and chemical composition: ascenders taste the world in ways I’ll never understand.

  I don’t see why they bother with clothes at all—they certainly don’t need protection or warmth. But I’m glad for the slight nod to modesty—their bodyforms still have all the external body parts of a human, a conceit from the time when they were still flesh and bone. And Lenora’s beauty is already more than my human senses can handle. I don’t think I would be able to speak coherently if she walked around naked all the time. Not that the sheer fabric hides much—the banquet of colors rippling across her body shines through. Supposedly, the ascenders see more than just the colors. Whatever they see, it must add in some way to how they communicate, on top of the thoughts they can broadcast, bodyform-to-bodyform. I can only guess what she’s feeling—whatever it is, it’s in no way bad, given the look on her face.

  She’s so immersed, she still hasn’t heard me step into the room. Maybe she has her audio inputs dialed down. I decide to test that first, just because sneaking up on an ascender isn’t particularly safe.

  “Do I even want to know what that feels like?” I ask, loudly, from the door.

  She jumps clear to the other side of the studio in one leap. Ascender reactions are so lightning fast that when they’re startled, it’s like a mini-explosion occurs in their body. The left-behind roses rock hazardously on the table. She zips back, rights them, then finally looks to me.

  It’s all I can do not to burst out laughing.

  “Sorry.” The wide smile on her face tinges delightfully with a purple ripple of embarrassment. “I was a little preoccupied.”

  “I guess.” I’m grinning ear to ear.

  The ripples of golden-red from her encounter with the vase settle into a more muted glow. She blinks a couple of times, extra slow, like she’s still in the thick of the experience. Finally, her gaze finds the painting case hanging from my hand.

  “Did you finish a new piece?” The excitement in her voice makes my heart lurch.

  I take a breath. “Yes. This one is… well…” I can’t put the feeling I have about painting my mom’s beauty into words. Especially when the chances are against her ever looking this way again. “It’s different.” I settle for that.

  Lenora steps toward me. “Let me see.” It’s not quite a command, but it doesn’t occur to me not to obey.

  I pass my thumb over the sensor lock, and the case opens. I carefully slide the painting out, easing the case to the floor and holding the canvas up for Lenora to see. I watch her face as she takes it in, not sure what I want to see. If she disapproves, she might not buy it from me. I need the chits, but even more… I know it’s one of my best works. If Lenora was willing to buy the rainforest piece, she’ll have to want this. Only I’m not sure I want to sell it.

  She doesn’t say anything, just steps closer. My heartbeat kicks up a notch. She passes her fingers over it. Her movements are so precise she can touch it without disturbing even the finest brush marks. She examines her fingers and whatever microscopic traces are there, as if the depths of the painting can somehow be found in its molecular structure. I wonder if she sees things, meaning and intent, that I can’t even see myself.

  She’s ascended, not magical, I remind myself. Although sometimes I doubt it, with the effect she has on me. And the ascenders are closer to being true gods than the icons in my mother’s shrine.

  “What I don’t understand,” she says, finally, “is why you’ve painted your mother.”

  My throat closes up. “I wanted to…” The words are like mice scattering before a cat. “I wanted to remember how she looked before.” Lenora knows my mother is dying. She has to know the untraceable chits are for illegal meds. But I don’t want to voice how desperate I am to keep my mother alive. Lenora’s an ascender, and ascender law is what prevents my mom from getting a true cure. Outright rebellious talk risks exile. And an end to those black market meds.

  Lenora drops her hands and looks in my eyes. She’s standing so close I can smell the faint scent of roses on her. “This one is very precious to you,” she says softly.

  I swallow. “Yes.”

  “It’s beautiful, Elijah,” she says, dropping her intense gaze to the work instead of me. “Your love shines in it. I think it’s some of your finest work so far.”

  I can’t speak for a moment. She loves it, which is exactly what I want to hear, but that means she’ll keep it, which makes my stomach twist. “Thanks,” I manage.

  She looks up. “You’ll want to keep it, of course.”

  “I… what?” It’s so unexpected, my brain can’t process it.

  She steps back to admire it further. “Elijah, it’s a deeply personal work. I can’t possibly take that from you. Even the idea is repellent to me.” She holds a delicate-fingered hand out toward the canvas. “There is so much… potential locked inside you, Elijah. Do you see what a leap you took here, when you reached deep inside yourself? I can’t possibly overstate how important it is for you to focus on that and take it to the highest possible level.”

  I’m nodding, but inside, I’m squirming with guilt. She sounds like my mother. Even though they’ve never met, the one thing they’ve always had in common was a fervor for me to develop my art. Even as my mother is dying, it’s the one thing she’ll keep fighting for.

  “But if I leave it with you, you must promise not to sell it elsewhere.” Lenora’s eyes are bluish-purple today, and they bore into me. “Promise me, Eli.”

  She called me Eli. My mouth hangs open, but I quickly shut it. “I promise.”

  “I’m your patron precisely so you do not have to worry about these things. I will credit your account with a hundred extra chits for each one of these you create for me. I will only keep the ones you can part with. Just create them… that is all I ask.”

  I nod, mute, mostly because my throat is thick with emotion.

  She gives me a small frown. “We don’t need to discuss what you use the chits for, Elijah.” There’s a warning in her voice, but all I hear is my full name again. And I’m disappointed. “That’s none of my business. But your art is my business. It’s more important than… than I think you realize.” She hesitates, like she wants to say more, but is holding back.

  She has my full attention now. “What do you mean?”

  “Just that you’re on the verge of something here, a movement forward, and I want you to focus on that as much as possible.”

  “Okay.” There’s more she’s not sharing.

  “In fact, I think we should put aside our lesson today.”

  My face must show immediate disappointment because she hurries to add, “Oh, we’re definitely painting today. But I want to turn our focus to this deeper spring you’ve tapped into. I want you to paint your mother again. For me, this time.”

  She
rushes with ascender speed across the room to the cabinet of supplies and pulls out a canvas easily twice the size of the one I brought. In a blur, she’s back at the easel, then she returns to the cabinet for a palette and paints.

  I watch her flit back and forth. “I guess we’re in a hurry to do this?” She’s never been so animated when it came time for our lessons.

  She freezes in place, two tubes of paint in one hand and half a dozen brushes in the other. “You must seize upon it when it’s here, Elijah.”

  She’s talking about the fugue state, even though we’ve never called it that. She must think I’m finally mastering it, tapping into that potential through my own effort, rather than some kind of random fit. But I know it was really nothing more than an ardent desire to see my mother beautiful again.

  I sit at the ridiculously large canvas she’s set for me. “This is… quite a lot of real estate.” Suddenly, my body shivers even though the studio is warm with baked-in sun. I don’t even know where to start with this.

  She pulls a stool and sits very close, distracting me further. “I want you to have plenty of room to explore.” She sweeps her splayed hand across the face of the blank canvas. “No detail is too small. I want you to dive deep and see what you find there.”

  I take a breath, pick up the pencil, and hover over the canvas, trying to decide where to begin.

  “No,” she says, pulling the pencil from my hand. “Paint only.”

  I look at her, wondering suddenly if it’s possible for ascenders to go crazy. Like, actually short circuit their electronic brains. “What?”

  She leans closer, looking directly into my eyes. The tiny pixels in her iris shift and contract, darkening the color and dilating her pupil. “Just try, Elijah.”

  I’m lost in her eyes for a moment before I force myself to turn away. I pretend to carefully choose a brush from the tray, but really I just need some distance from her in order to think coherently. I mix some colors, buying time. She wants a picture of my mother. I just spent days watching her in the throes of her illness and possible cure. Her face is etched in my mind.