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

by Susan Kaye Quinn

  “I think she means the painting I did for my patron,” I say to Cyrus. Marcus uploaded the fugue painting of my mother to Orion, but I’m not sure what Basha means by the “unofficial” net. I can see the gears in Cyrus’s head turning. If Basha’s tapped into some kind of black market Olympic book makers, I’m sure Cyrus will be all over pumping that information out of her. It’s the kind of thing he would have done already, if he weren’t focused on helping me figure out how to win.

  We use our implants to pay for the food and weave our way through the multi-colored crowd of uniforms to find an open space to sit. Frowns and glares follow us the entire way. Once we settle in—Kamali and I on one side of the small square table, Basha and Cyrus on the other—Basha is back into full gossip mode.

  She points with her fork, like it’s a mini-taser. “See that cluster of drama over there?” I glance over my shoulder at a group of four red-uniformed girls. “They’re from Rio. All of them in the same family. All dancers. Their mother was an agonite who came in second. They’re all competitors, not just support.”

  Second place. It has to be the hardest loss to bear—the gold medalist goes on to immortality, while the one who was just slightly less brilliant goes home. Often their patrons abandon them, looking for someone else to sponsor. Someone who can still compete. The ascenders have all of eternity to score a winning agonite; legacies only get one shot.

  “Is that legal?” I ask. “To have that many competitors from one family, I mean.” Rio is the main legacy city in South America, and it’s not unheard of for second-generation agonites to get sponsorship. After all, talent runs in the genes. Chances are even better if one of their parents was well-loved by their patron. A domestic. My mind floats up the offensive term, but I shove it away.

  Basha gives them a glare, like their mere existence is a crime against art. “Not technically. They think they’re increasing their odds by packing the field. But it doesn’t really matter.” Basha sniffs and turns her gaze back to me. “Everyone knows Kamali is going to win drama this year. Even the book makers.”

  “I believe it.” I sneak a look to her.

  She stabs her vegetables with her fork, half-heartedly pushing them around. “Don’t jinx it, Basha.” Her voice is quiet, but I hear a tremble in it.

  I frown and ask her softly, “Is it dangerous to be the front runner?”

  Kamali stops torturing her food to look at me. “It’s worth it.”

  I nod, but a strange feeling takes up residence in my chest.

  Before I can decide what it is, Cyrus pipes up. “Well, I’m glad we’re in artem, then. Eli would have no chance against Kamali.”

  I hear the humor in his voice, but Basha nods, like this is a given.

  “You guys need to worry about that guy.” Basha uses her chin to point out a nearby gang of three blue uniforms.

  Cyrus gives them a long look. “I know that guy in the center. Eli?”

  I check him out. “He’s from Seattle, I think.” I vaguely remember him from one of the legacy Art Fairs when we were young.

  “Aaron Thompson, seventeen and three-quarters years old, resident of Seattle.” Basha leans forward and lowers her voice. “Both his parents were agonites. They competed against each other, lost, and… decided to have a baby instead. There’s more than one way to win ascendance.”

  “What?” I draw back. “You’re kidding. You mean they had a baby just so it could compete?”

  Basha nods wisely, and I’m surprised to see Cyrus nodding with her.

  “Not the first time it’s happened,” Basha says. “Pretty creepy, if you ask me.” She shrugs. “Or maybe they just fell in love. Drowned their post-competition sorrows in each other’s arms.”

  “That seems more likely.” I’m vaguely horrified at the idea of parents conceiving a child just to have hopes of ascending themselves if it won.

  Basha looks askance at me, then turns to Cyrus. “Is he always this straight?”

  He smirks. “Unfortunately, yes. Painfully so.”

  Apparently, I’m going to be the source of many jokes between the two of them. I give Cyrus a pre-emptive glower.

  Something catches Basha’s eye. “Oh, hey!” she bursts out. “Delphina, you made it!”

  A short, angry-looking girl stands next to Kamali’s chair, arms crossed, giving the evil eye to Cyrus and me. Her uniform is yellow, but it’s torn and blackened with stripes of charcoal. The ripped pieces of fabric have been repurposed as bindings that shorten the arms and legs, with another strip twisted and wrapped around her forehead as a lumpy bandana. The effect is ragged and somehow defiant. The black smeared on her eyelids and lips adds a fierce touch.

  Kamali leaps up from her chair to hug Delphina. The difference in their heights means Kamali has to bend down to wrap her long arms around her. Cyrus gives me a one-eyebrow lift, and I’m not quite sure what to make of it either. It’s a pretty enthusiastic hug for just being friends.

  When Kamali releases her, Delphina asks, quietly, “What’s with the artems?” She says it like we’re dangerous animals that were mistakenly let out of the zoo. Her hand lingers at Kamali’s waist.

  My puzzlement about Delphina turns into an instant dislike.

  Kamali shakes her head. “Basha invited them.”

  Delphina releases her and sits down to join us. I just now notice she has a red apple in her hand. She carefully places it on the table, like it’s a cryptic challenge. I don’t understand it, but I don’t like it either.

  Cyrus puts out his hand. “I’m Cyrus. This is Eli. We’re new here. Don’t want any trouble.”

  She regards his hand and slowly takes it. The shake is brief, but somehow Cyrus has managed to diffuse whatever bomb was waiting to explode inside her.

  “Delphina is in storia!” Basha’s exuberance seems unaffected by the tension. “She’s a writer.”

  “A spoken word artist,” Delphina says, like she’s bored. Only there’s a million watts of dangerous energy underneath it.

  “She’s from Paris,” Basha says, like that explains everything. Paris is one of the legacy cities known for producing top competitors year after year, so I suppose that it does.

  “You must have a good shot at ascending,” I say, trying to make a truce.

  “Why else would I be here?” she asks, stone-cold.

  I’m about to concede the arrogance factor of creatives to Cyrus for all time, when Delphina cracks a tiny, secret smile. But it’s not directed at me… it’s for Kamali, who’s just shaking her head in response. I’m annoyed with the secret language between them—which would be fairly ridiculous, except I already feel a connection to Kamali. Or rather my Muse does. Kamali feels… important to me. Somehow key to making this all work. It’s just a gut feeling, but it’s strong.

  “So…” says Cyrus, trying to break the tension again. “Where are you and Kamali from?” he asks Basha.

  “Oh, we’re from Paris, too,” Basha says, like it’s no big deal. “Kamali comes from a long line of Parisian dancers, but I’m just a legacy girl trying to—” She stalls out and looks at something over my shoulder. “Uh oh.”

  Delphina’s curses are as colorful as her outfit. “I could have told you the artems would be trouble, Basha,” she says, harsh but quiet.

  “Eli,” Cyrus says, warning in his voice.

  I twist around to see what they’re talking about. Aaron Thompson is stalking up to our table, flanked by his support team: two very large guys who weren’t chosen for their intellect. I rise up from my chair. Whatever issue Thompson has with me, I don’t want him bringing it to the rest of the table. Cyrus has come around, so he’s in between Thompson’s crew and Basha. I have no idea what’s about to go down, but I’m regretting having any of it near the girls.

  Thompson stops just out of arm’s reach. He stands with his feet planted wide, arms folded. “Elijah Brighton.” He cocks his head to one side. “Never thought I’d see you here.”

  “Never expected to be here.” I scram
ble for some clue as to who this guy is. His dark hair is long and straight and tucked behind his ears in a slick way that certainly says artiste more than the ragged brown mop on my head. I only get a haircut when my mom has a chance… and when she’s well.

  Thompson takes a step closer to me. “Aren’t you that kid who was always sketching boats?” His blue eyes shine with menace. “Imagine that. Boats. In Seattle.”

  My memories start to fill in the blanks: Thompson, the local prodigy, son of two agonites. Thompson, winning all the junior art fairs. His art was so good, he had a patron by age ten. I was sixteen before Lenora took me on, and then only after my mom circulated The Puppet Boy on ArtNet—a fugue-piece that I haven’t been able to replicate since. Thompson’s been making Olympic-level art since he was a kid. He should have nothing to worry about—yet here he is, harassing me. Like Marcus said, distracting the competition.

  Two can play this game.

  “I like painting boats,” I say, playing up the dark horse angle. “Simple. Unassuming. Easy.”

  He chuckles and glances back at his goons, who are having a laugh at my expense, too.

  “Good choice,” Thompson says. “I hear ascenders like boats. They like water, too. Here’s a tip: why don’t you paint the Dead Sea for your showpiece?”

  It’s too bad that being an Olympic-sized jerk has no bearing on whether you win. A burning need wells up inside me to take the gold away from this guy. If he loses, he gets to disappoint his morally-challenged parents, the ones who had him just so they could ascend.

  If I lose, my mom dies.

  “I’ve already got something… unexpected planned for the showpiece,” I say, coolly. “I guess you’ll have to see it when everyone else does. On stage.”

  His eyes turn cold, and the smile falls from his face. He leans in closer. “When I heard you had a sponsor, I said to my friends…” He gestures to the two thugs whose muscles bulge under their uniforms. “…who is this Elijah Brighton? Then I remembered: your mother’s a two-chit paint-slinger. Had a patron for a while but couldn’t keep him. And your father… oh, that’s right. No father on your birth records.”

  My fists curl up. I don’t know what he means about my mother having a patron—she tolerates Lenora, for my sake, but she’s never had one of her own—but I know exactly what he means about birth records. My mother doesn’t even have relatives in Seattle—but that doesn’t stop the rumors. Another memory dredges up: the playground, a tall kid, arrogant even at seven. Inbred. The word-memory still sends a shiver through me. I remember Thompson’s nose crunching under my fist.

  I’m ready to bloody it again.

  Cyrus puts a hand on my shoulder and whispers in my ear, “Regulations, Eli.”

  Throwing the first punch will get me kicked out. I let loose a slow breath, packed with anger.

  Thompson snorts a laugh. “C’mon, Brighton. Can’t imagine an inbred like you worries about regs too much.”

  Cyrus’s hand clamps tighter.

  Thompson leans closer, within punching distance. “How is your mother? I hear she’s not feeling so well.”

  My eyelid twitches, and Thompson’s smirk grows.

  Suddenly, Delphina appears out of nowhere, stepping around me and forcing her short body in between me and Thompson. “Why don’t you find some different puppies to eat, artem?” she says up into his face. Her voice has no fear, and Thompson actually leans back.

  He jerks his head, motioning her aside. “This isn’t your problem, storia.”

  “Massive jerkwad bullies are everyone’s problem,” she says. “You see, I think your threats are as empty as your head, artem. As empty as your pants.” Thompson’s mouth falls open. The power in her voice just grows. “As empty as your mind, which they’ll find when they try to ascend you, and all they get is an echoing shell that walks and talks like a man, but has no heart. No soul.”

  Thompson clamps his mouth shut, his jaw working. Her words ricochet around in my head. There’s silence as the Lounge collectively holds its breath.

  She spreads her hands wide and looks him up and down. “You see, I’m five foot nothing, with a headband and attitude, and you’re one of three, six foot two, with fists to match. No one— and I mean no one, artem—is going to believe I threw the first punch.”

  She pulls back a fist. Thompson’s eyes grow wide, and he takes a stumbling step backward, out of her reach.

  I’m struck dumb with awe.

  Delphina relaxes her arm, flicking her hand. She’s shaking him off like so much dust. Her gaze never leaves Thompson’s face, but her words are for me. “Get out of here, painter boy. We got this.”

  When I don’t move, Cyrus shoves me a little. “Go,” he says, between clenched teeth.

  The thought of leaving burns shame in my chest. But I can’t afford a fight. And leaving means Thompson no longer has someone to taunt. No fuel for his fire.

  I turn and stride away, embarrassment flaming my cheeks. I strain to hear any signs of a scuffle, a fight sparking in my absence, but I don’t dare look back.

  I hear nothing but the hushed murmurs of the Lounge slowly coming back to life.

  I stumble out of the Lounge and into the hallway.

  The fire in my face, the shame of Thompson’s taunts and Delphina’s rescue, spreads down to my chest and consumes the air in my lungs. Because he’s right: I have no right to be here. I don’t have a long line of competition-level artists in my family. I have some kind of freak gift I can’t control. Being here is an accident. A waste of time. I should be home with my mother, caring for her in her final days. Obeying her dying wishes, not going against everything she believes just to reach for a prize I don’t have a chance of winning.

  Because there’s not going to be any ascendance for her. Or for me.

  I stop my headlong rush down the hall, realizing I have no idea how to get back to my apartment. The long hall outside the Lounge is lined with images: vids of gold medalists of the past, showing snippets of their winning performances. One displays a dancer, a classical ballerina like Kamali. Anatalia Petroli flashes across the screen as she levitates from the stage, creating beauty with her body by moving through space. Kamali belongs with her picture next to Anatalia’s, that much is clear.

  I touch the image, and it resets. Replays.

  Anatalia is an ascender now. One of the billions that will be watching and voting on Kamali’s performance. Next to Anatalia is a painter. Heinrich Schubert is halfway through his work, his brush sweeping across a painting I can already tell will be incandescent when it’s finished. Better than anything I could create outside of the fugue state. I step back and scan the line of ascended artists, a Hall of Fame literally immortalized by taking these legacies and ascending them into what passes for gods in our world. I notice one is darkened. As I step closer, I see it’s an actor. His performance is frozen, the expression on his face pained. It wrenches emotion out of me, even without the moving vid of his performance. I touch the screen, to see if I can bring it to life. Nothing. Then a chill sweeps through me—he must be one of the winners who ultimately lost. Who won the games, but didn’t survive the ascendance procedure… and paid the ultimate price for his ambition.

  My mouth is suddenly dry. I step back.

  “Are you all right?” Kamali’s voice is a whisper next to me. I jerk away, startled by her sudden appearance. The burning embarrassment floods back. I straighten and try to recover some dignity.

  “I’m fine. I just…” I cast a look down the hallway. “I’m not sure how to get back to my apartment.” Then I frown, realizing she’s alone. And that she came after me. The embarrassment wrestles with a small glow caused by that thought.

  “I can show you the way.”

  “Where’s Basha?” I ask. “My sponsor said you shouldn’t wander off alone. You never know when some creep like Thompson is going to show up.” Obviously, I’m not supposed to be on my own either… but I was driven out of the Lounge. She came voluntarily.

&nbs
p; “I’m with you.” She gives a tight smile.

  I quickly return it, the glow becoming a little brighter.

  “Besides, Basha wanted to stay and keep an eye on Thompson.”

  “Did he hassle you? Or was he just after me?” I’m worried about Cyrus, but I don’t say anything.

  “Just you, I imagine. You’re the only real threat to him. Getting your support team thrown out could be detrimental to you, but it could also make you more determined to win. There are all kinds of double and triple strategies.” She shakes her head, her pretty lips turning down. “That’s what the competition does to legacies. Turns artist against artist. Makes people like Thompson do things they probably never would otherwise, all to have an edge.”

  I frown. “I’m pretty sure Thompson was a jerk before the Olympics.”

  Her lips turn up into a small smile. “You’re probably right. I just hate seeing people turned into something they’re not by the games.”

  I think about Marcus’s warning: someone was willing to murder to influence the games. Then again, I’m not sure how much to trust Marcus. He might just be trying to scare me.

  I don’t say anything to Kamali.

  “Anyway,” she says, “I don’t pay attention to that stuff. I’m just here to dance.”

  I’m glad for the change in topic. I point to the wall. “You’re going to be up here soon. I just know it.”

  She studies the wall, scanning the faces, but she doesn’t say anything.

  I wonder if I’ve said something wrong.

  Then she drops her gaze to her delicate hands, which are playing with one another. I stare at them: I could just draw her hands and be happy. When she looks up, her eyes are wide and timid. Like she’s holding something sacred inside, and she’s not sure if she should share. “Cyrus said you wanted to paint me.”

  I suck in a breath. “He did?” I hope like crazy he said I wanted to paint her on canvas and not in a hundred other ways that only Cyrus could make sound dirty.

  She frowns. “He said you were blocked. That you needed some inspiration for your showpiece and that you thought… that maybe I could help.”