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

by Susan Kaye Quinn

  I should be able to do this.

  I start with the eyes, but they come out dead-looking. Or near death, as if they’re peering back through a veil drawn across the afterlife. I try blocking in skin tones instead, forming a rough shape for her face, but it’s likewise sickly gray. Next, I layer in some color, but it turns to angry red, a mix of fire and ash. This supposed portrait of my mother is quickly turning into some kind of demon.

  “I can fix it.” My breaths are becoming shallow.

  Lenora doesn’t move. Or speak. She’s fixated on my work. My hand shakes. I grip the brush harder to quell it and turn away again to avoid her intense gaze.

  The front door tones. In a whisper of movement, she’s gone. I set down the brush and press my hands to my face, rubbing my eyes and sucking in relief. I don’t know how she expects me to do anything with her hovering over me like that. I try to clear my mind and focus on this beastly work in front of me. How am I going to make something of this mess? I may have to scrape and start over.

  Then a thought drifts through my mind. Who’s at the door?

  As soon as I think it, I know it must be her second. Marcus. I’m up and heading toward the front before I realize what I’m doing. I stop and look back to the easel. I should stay here and work. I should ignore the idea that they’re probably embracing at the front door again. Not think about why he’s here. Not picture the swirl of color that will sweep her skin when she touches him.

  Yeah, right.

  I use soft footfalls to sneak out of the studio, the brush still in my hand. I find them in the gathering room, and I’m quiet enough that they don’t notice me right away. The rush of seeing them not touching makes me smile. Although they’re having some intense discussion, judging by the flashes of dark blue curling up and down their arms. I can’t hear the words they’re transmitting between their bodyforms, but whatever they’re talking about, it’s serious.

  Before I can decide if I’ve seen enough, they both turn at once to stare at me.

  I hold up the brush. “Um… not quite sure the direction you want me to take this.”

  “I’ll be a few more minutes, Elijah,” she says. “Please continue without me.”

  Marcus glowers at me. He’s barely dressed, the same lightweight shift as Lenora, only the male version leaves his upper body bare. A dark wisp of gray curls across the light beige skin of his chest, and I take it to mean impatience for me to leave. Which, naturally, makes me want to stay. But I can’t come up with any plausible excuse.

  I give a short nod and slump back to the studio.

  The monstrous picture of my mother on the easel is a horrific contrast to the one I painted at home, which leans against the glass nearby. The paint on the new canvas is already drying. I try to mix in some white to lighten it up, but it just brings a chalky pallor to my mother’s face.

  I’m going to have to start over.

  I stomp to the cabinet, grab some rags and acetone, and return to the canvas. I start with too little solvent, so it simply smears. I drench the rag and rub harder. Paint bleeds through the rags. The fumes burn my nose. The color has turned to mud and leached onto my hands. I search for a clean part of the rag to wipe my fingers, but the acetone stings my skin and there’s grayish red on everything. In frustration, I throw the paint-laden rag to the floor.

  Then I feel it. Like the rush of a train coming behind me, all noise and impending doom. I turn, as if I can actually ward off the fugue by facing into it…

  My mother is painting. I can tell it’s her by the shape of her head, even though I’m behind her, and the room is blurred with hazy sun. Her blonde hair is longer than it should be, falling in waves down her back. She turns to dip her brush into a palette filled with nothing but blues. Her face is unlined, bright with youth, no dark circles under her eyes. She’s radiant with a beauty so bright it hurts my eyes. Her gaze flits over the colors on her palette, choosing and dabbing with a small wiggle in her brush. I would know that movement anywhere. I spent years watching her. Painting with her. Dab. Blend. Wiggle. Just like I remember, but this is too real to be a memory…

  I’m on the floor.

  I don’t remember falling.

  A paintbrush lies in my upturned hand, on the steel floor in front of my face. Its blue paint glistens in the sun. Suddenly the floor disappears, and the room spins. Cool arms hold me. With horror, I realize that Lenora’s second is carrying me like a baby. I struggle to get free, even though with one wrong twitch, he could crush my bones.

  He sets me down. My legs buckle. I fall into a chair that has appeared next to me. I blink and look up, my limbs trembling. Lenora’s second stares at me with cool, calculating eyes. Lenora stands behind him. Her skin is a tombstone gray, a pallor that hides all her emotions… but her eyes are wide with alarm.

  I look at the paint brush still clutched in my hand. A shudder spasms it. I lean to the side, peering around them, afraid of what I’ll see on the canvas across the room.

  Breath rushes out of me.

  The fire and ash of my mother’s face have been turned into an inferno of death. A blue spirit rises out of it, wrapped in delicate white wisps, arms spread wide. It’s a rendition of my mother more beautiful than any memory. It’s nothing I’ve ever seen or even envisioned. And it’s luminescent with something greater than reality.

  Just looking at it makes me want to weep.

  It’s mine. I know it is. My heart seizes as I realize why Lenora is alarmed.

  I’ve just created a fugue-state painting in front of her second.

  I’m entranced by the impossibly beautiful painting I’ve created.

  My head is still fuzzy from the fugue, but it’s obviously the best thing I’ve ever made. My attempts before to render my mother’s beauty in paint were like a child’s scrawl compared to this—the fine spun colors of her face alone have a transcendence that lifts from the canvas.

  I made that. It was in an insane fugue state, but still—some part of me was able to create that. Deep inside, the love of the work wrestles with a creeping horror of what it means.

  My gaze swings back to Lenora’s second.

  “How are you feeling, Eli?” Marcus asks. His name comes back to me as I stare up into his tar-black eyes.

  I command my still-shaking limbs to calm while I straighten in the chair. “I’m fine.”

  He inspects me with a piercing gaze, which doesn’t help my mental state. I flit a look to Lenora, but she’s holding back.

  “You seem to have made some rather rapid progress with your skills.” Marcus glances at the two paintings of my mother, an object lesson in what I can do when awake and when insane.

  Insane is definitely better.

  “I suppose.” I narrow my eyes. Has Lenora told him things about me when they’re locked in their fevered embraces? Am I pillow-talk between them? The idea makes me grip my brush harder.

  He’s still studying me, measuring me in a thousand inhuman ways, but none of his thoughts show on his face. Or his skin, which has gone to a carefully neutral gray.

  He gives a short nod. “He’s ready to compete.”

  Lenora comes to life, suddenly lurching forward. “No! He’s not ready.”

  “The evidence would suggest otherwise.”

  “Ready for what?” I ask, but my heart is racing. They’re talking about the Olympics. I know they are. My mind is spinning… the Olympics are almost here. Is it even possible?

  Marcus ignores Lenora’s angry looks to give me an arrogant smirk. “For the art division, of course. Unless you have a hidden talent for dance as well?”

  Every hair on the back of my neck rises, and I slowly stand up from the chair. His bodyform is taller than me, but not by much.

  “I paint.” I can feel the pride of it, but I don’t care. There’s nothing wrong with dancing, but Marcus is mocking me, challenging me.

  Lenora moves between us, and I don’t miss the protective stance she’s taken in front of me. It’s both insulting and makes
my heart swell. Her back is to me, but whatever words she’s transmitting to Marcus banishes his smirk.

  “He’s not ready,” Lenora says, obviously speaking aloud now for my benefit. “I’m still working with him to bring out his potential. He needs more time.” Her new bodyform puts her a few inches shorter than him, but she’s not backing down. A fanciful image of them fighting jumps into my brain. If it came to blows, I honestly don’t know who would win. Lenora’s bodyform is more graceful, but they both have the hidden strength of ascender tech on their side.

  “He doesn’t have more time.” He’s speaking to Lenora, but the words are meant for me. “The competition is in days. The boy is nearly eighteen. Next year, he won’t qualify.”

  He’s right: this is the last year for me. Not that I ever thought I would have a chance to go, but once I turn eighteen, I can’t compete. The ascenders want their gold medal winners to have the best chance of surviving the ascendance procedure, and after eighteen, the risk of death starts to go up. The family members are allowed to ascend, no matter their age, as a courtesy to the medalist. It would be cruel to force the winners to leave their families behind.

  This is my one and only chance. For both me and my mom.

  Marcus locks his gaze on me. “What do you say, legacy? Do you think you have something worth contributing to Orion?”

  Lenora whips her attention to me. Her frown brings a flush of anger to my face. With all that talk of my “potential,” all I see in her eyes is fear and doubt. Her skin is still carefully gray, hiding her emotions.

  Of course, she’s right—I’m nowhere near ready.

  A thought scrapes at the back of my mind: there was something different about this fugue. I’ve always blacked out before, but this time… that memory or hallucination or whatever-it-was of watching my mother paint… it has to mean something. Maybe it’s a sign that something about the fugue is changing. That maybe I can learn to control it.

  I meet Marcus’s expectant look. “I’m ready.”

  Lenora throws an icy glare to Marcus then steps forward to take my face in her hands. I’m so shocked, my body seizes up, and I nearly tumble backward. Her fingers are cool and soft as satin on my face. I’m completely distracted by the sensation and miss the first few words of what she’s saying.

  “…but you mustn’t rush it,” she says. “You have to have patience, Eli, not push beyond what you’re ready for.”

  Eli. My name on her lips torments me. Her purple-blue eyes are close and concerned. Her face is so near, I could lean forward and kiss her right now. But her lips are drawn into a tight line of disapproval. And I can’t imagine Marcus would tolerate a kiss, even if I could steal one.

  “You were the one rushing me five minutes ago.” I stay in her embrace even as I protest with my words.

  “It wasn’t five minutes ago, Elijah.” She drops her hands from my face. The alarm is back in her eyes. “You painted for an hour.”

  An hour. I forgot there’s always a time loss with the fugue. Only this time, she watched it happen. They both did, watching me paint in a trance for an hour then end up on the floor. She and Marcus both have to know something is seriously messed up with my process.

  I have absolutely no idea how I can possibly master something that hits me like a freight train, but I have to try. It would bring everything into my reach. Including her.

  “I can do this, Lenora. Please. Let me do this. I’ll prove it to you.”

  “No.” For a second, the gray pallor of her skin flickers, and a ribbon of darker gray trickles across it… then it’s gone. “I’m not going to let you attempt this when you’re not ready. I won’t sponsor you.” She gives me a stern look. “And you can’t go without my approval. I will terminate your patronage.”

  Breath escapes me, but the hurt is still trapped inside. She means it: she would cut me off if I even tried to go. My mind can’t wrap around it. Does she have so little faith in me?

  Or worse: maybe she’s afraid I’ll actually win.

  “I will sponsor you,” Marcus says.

  My shoulders jerk. I had forgotten he was there. Then his words sink into my brain as Lenora turns on him.

  “You will not!” She stabs a finger at him.

  He looks amused. “A dozen others will gladly step into my place. Orion is already buzzing with what he’s done.”

  Her bodyform tenses. The dark gray ripple shudders across her body again. For an instant, I think she might actually attack him. Or maybe just slap him. But slowly her shoulders drop until… she just looks defeated.

  Which makes me hate Marcus even as he’s giving me the one thing I truly want.

  He softens his voice and ducks his head closer to her. “Better me than someone else. I’ll watch over him.” He lifts his gaze to look at me. “Are you ready to compete, legacy?”

  “Yes,” I say without hesitation. But I hate the slight tremble in Lenora’s shoulders as she gives up. She brushes past Marcus and exits the room with a speed that leaves a stirring of air in her wake. I hope it means she won’t forgive him. Although I don’t know if she’ll forgive me either. And if I don’t win, I lose everything… including my patron.

  A long moment stretches, while Marcus and I both watch the door. Then a look of determination settles on his face. “The competition is in two days. Which means we’re rather short on time. We should relocate you to Agon right away.”

  “Agon,” I say, making sure I heard him right. “You mean the Olympic Village. In California.”

  He shakes his head and has a pinched up look, like dealing with a human is already more trouble than he expected. “We must leave immediately.”

  “Like right now?” I suddenly realize I can’t just pick up and leave Seattle to join the competitors in sunny California. Who would take care of my mom? Cyrus can’t watch her full-time, and she doesn’t have any other family. It’s just the two of us.

  Marcus regards me coolly. “Whatever your concerns are, they can be handled. I’m your sponsor now. Whatever you need, I’ll provide. But your actions from this moment forward will reflect on me, and word is already spreading through Orion that you’ll be in the competition, so I’d prefer if we didn’t waste time—”

  “It’s not that simple,” I cut him off.

  Marcus’s shoulders tense. I have the feeling he doesn’t expect me to talk back.

  “I can’t just leave my mom.” Does he know about her sickness? Ascenders tend to know everything.

  “Your mother will be provided for, obviously.” Then he pauses and frowns. “I can see you’re not adequately prepared for this. We can remedy that once we reach Agon, but for now, you need to trust that I want nothing more than for you to compete. And win. I have resources at my disposal that you’re probably not aware of. Whatever problems you foresee, I am certain—”

  A pinging sound from my pants pocket cuts him off. He pulls a face, and the carefully controlled, steely gray tone of his skin darkens. I hurry over to the easel to set down the paintbrush that’s still in my hand and still wet from creating something I have no idea how to recreate. My miraculous painting innocently challenges me from the canvas while I dig out the phone buried deep in my pocket. It pings again as I check it.

  My heart sinks as I read the message from Cyrus.

  Come home now.

  I fly down the winding streets of Lenora’s outer-rim neighborhood.

  I catch the tram just as it’s leaving the station. I pace the length of it while I try to get Cyrus on the phone for the fifth time. It just keeps ringing. I sprint the entire two block stretch between the station and my apartment building, taking the stairs three at a time up all five flights. I can barely breathe by the time I reach the top. It takes the building bot three tries to recognize my voice and let me in.

  I run to my mother’s room, but she’s not there. My heart is ready to burst out of my body.

  “Eli!” Cyrus calls from down the hall. “We’re in the bathroom.”

  In a blur,
I’m there. I see now why Cyrus wasn’t answering the phone. He’s got my mom in the bathtub, immersed in water, with her head propped against the far end. Her white nightgown floats in odd puffs where the air is trapped and clings in other spots, revealing her withered body underneath.

  “What happened?” I ask, my voice trembling.

  My mom’s eyes are closed, and they twitch under the paper-thin skin of her eyelids. She must be caught in some kind of dream.

  “Her fever spiked.” Cyrus is breathless. His shirt and pants are soaked with water. “She was burning up. I had to cool her down. I know you don’t want her going to the hospital, but her fever was insane. I had to do something.” His broad shoulders bow with the weight of this.

  I briefly place a hand on his bent back. “You did the right thing, Cy.” I edge past him—there’s barely room for the both of us in the tiny bathroom—and kneel by the side of the tub. My mom’s skin is flushed, glistening either with sweat or water from the tub.

  “Eli,” Cyrus says softly from behind me. “We should take her to the hospital.”

  “We can’t.” My eyes start to pool water. “They’ll find out she’s been taking gen tech.”

  “But once she’s there, they’ll have to do something,” Cyrus says with exasperation. “They’ll have to give her antibiotics to fight the infection. Or treat her somehow…”

  But I hear the doubt in his voice. They should do something to save her. But they won’t. He knows it as well as I do, or he would have taken her there already.

  “Eli, I’m… I’m so sorry…” His voice is choked.

  I look up. His face was already wet, but now there are tears as well as bath water. I stand and grip his shoulders, struggling to keep us both upright on the slippery floor. “This isn’t your fault. I’m the one who wanted to try this, okay? And the fever is good. That’s what your guy said—the fever means she’s fighting the disease. Right?”