“No more,” I say, kicking away from Cyrus and sliding along the floor. My hands are shaking so badly, I have to try three times to grab the edge of the cot and pull myself up to my knees. Cyrus’s hands are helping me. “No more,” I say again, shaking my head, even though he hasn’t said a thing.
“Okay,” he says. “No more. I promise. Let’s get you back to your barracks. So you can rest.” I can tell by the look on his face that he thinks I need a lot more than sleep.
And he’s not wrong.
I’m never going into the fugue state again, not if I can help it.
I spend the rest of the day in my bunk.
Mercifully, I fall asleep. Even more mercifully, I don’t dream.
I’m awake now, but I keep my eyes closed. The thin blanket covers most of my face as people move around me, shuffling their feet on the floor and speaking in hushed tones. If I lie still, maybe they will leave me alone. The post-fugue tremors are gone, but my growling stomach tells me I’ve probably missed dinner. Maybe, once everyone settles in for the night, I can sneak out to the mess hall. I just can’t face anyone right now—especially Cyrus or Basha or even my mother. Not with their imagined deaths still fresh in my mind.
The fugue, whatever it is, isn’t access to Orion, like Cyrus thinks. It’s not talking to God, like Lenora believes. It’s just a hallucination or a dream or… something. Maybe it’s my subconscious dredging up random nightmares—my brain, processing the horror of the mission today. The fact that the hole in Ayala’s body can never be fixed. That over a dozen people died to keep me and Kamali and Delphina alive. The idea that I’m a danger to the Resistance—Commander Astoria is right about that. My mind took those things and ran with them.
I don’t know what the fugue really is, and I’m not going to find out. It can just lie dormant for all I care. I don’t need to see any more death.
The floorboards next to my cot creak. “Eli.” It’s Cyrus.
I debate continuing to pretend I’m asleep.
“I know you’re not sleeping, dude, come on.”
I suck in a breath, open my eyes, and squint up at him. The barracks’ internal lights are on, now that the sun’s gone down. “Hard to sleep with you lumbering around.”
He doesn’t even crack a smile. “You ready to talk about what happened back there?”
“No.” I hunch under the covers. “No more fugue for me. I’m done with it.”
“Fine.”
But he doesn’t leave me alone. Instead, he reaches down to pull off the blanket. A rush of cool air swipes away my comforting seclusion.
“But you need to get up,” he says. “They’re having a funeral for the ones we lost on the op.”
Oh man. I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t think of anything I would like to do less… but I force myself to swing my legs off the cot. I peer up at Cyrus. He’s changed out of the camouflage into an all-black outfit: dark shirt and pants.
“Okay,” I say. “I’m coming.”
“Clean up, all right? You look terrible.”
“Yeah, okay.” I order my legs to carry me to the wash basin at the end of the barrack. The tent is mostly cleared out, so I have it to myself. I splash cold water on my face and do a quick glance in the mirror. Cyrus is right: black circles under my eyes, hollowed out cheeks. I’m a mess.
When I return to the cot, Cyrus has a shirt for me: black, high-necked, some synthetic fiber I can’t identify. I slip it on and adjust the cuffs—they seal with an adhesive and stretch halfway up my arms. Cyrus doesn’t say anything about my black pants and boots left over from the mission, he just beckons me to follow him outside.
It’s dark. Each barracks glows from within, but the ground is deep with shadows cast by the thin, glaring lights marking each doorway. A slow drift of people heads toward the glowing-white ascender pod, which spills light onto the grass outside its open door. Cyrus gestures with his chin to head that way.
“You all right?” he asks quietly.
I glance at him, but his gaze is locked ahead on the pod. “I’ll be okay.”
He nods, and we don’t speak anymore. As we get closer, I see Kamali and Tristan at the entrance, holding hands. Kamali’s dress is utterly black, and her hair is loose and billowing. With her tall, thin frame and carved cheeks, she’s gorgeous even though the night hides most of her beauty. My fingers itch with the need to draw her—the first time I’ve had an urge to draw anything since the Olympics. Tristan bends his head to her, saying something I can’t hear as we approach.
I look away, studying the grass in front of me.
When we arrive, I look up again. Kamali has gone inside, but Tristan is still at the door along with another militia. They’re both wearing formal clothes like Cyrus’s and handing something out to the people in line. When we reach the door, Tristan gives Cyrus a thin, clear film with the number seventeen imprinted on it. The ink part is small, half the size of my thumbnail.
Cyrus frowns. “What’s this?”
“A remembrance.” Tristan’s unusually green eyes flick to me. “It’s the number of the fallen.” He loosens the cuff of his shirt and pulls up the sleeve on his left forearm. There are six numbers stacked in a line: two, ten, four, one, six, and now seventeen.
“These are all ops?” I ask, the sick feeling in my stomach dropping to a new low.
“Yes, sir.”
His military politeness somehow makes it worse. If Kamali’s looking for a hero for her revolution, Tristan, with the six missions he’s survived, is a much better candidate than a painter who has visions of her dying. Although, technically, Tristan wasn’t on this particular mission.
And I was.
“Do you want one, sir?”
I look up from the numbers. He’s taking his measure of me, and I can’t even imagine what’s going through his head. I doubt he has any idea Kamali and I shared a kiss.
“Yes,” I say to the tattoo he’s offering.
He nods like this is the answer he expected. He takes one of the films between his fingers, twists and snaps it, then holds out his hand. I open the adhesive on my cuff and expose my wrist. Tristan presses the film flat against my skin with his palm. It burns, and I try hard not to wince. When he releases my arm, the stinging is gone, along with the film, but the number remains, black and shiny on my skin.
I expect him to wave us into the pod, but instead, he tips his head away from the line behind us. “Could I have a word with you, sir?”
I glance at Cyrus, and he looks ready for a fight. I frown at him and shake my head. “Um… sure,” I say to Tristan. We follow him around the corner of the glowing-white pod.
Tristan comes to a stop, hands tucked behind his back in a military-ease position, and stares straight into my eyes. “There are some who say you’re the one the Resistance has been waiting for, sir.” His voice is cool. Accusing. “And there are some who think you’re a danger to us all.”
What? Cyrus hovers at my back, ready to give Tristan a serving of his fist. Tristan glances at him but seems unfazed by Cyrus’s looming presence.
“I’m not either of those things,” I say tightly.
“That’s what I told Kamali.”
We lock stares.
“Do you have a point here?” Cyrus asks, his voice wound tight.
Tristan ignores him. “I don’t know what you did to piss her off, Brighton, but I can tell you this: you don’t know her like I do. She’s already given a lot to the Resistance. She’s seen enough, given up enough—she doesn’t need to be dragged down by the dark side of this war.”
“I don’t want that either.” Tristan’s words twist my stomach. Truth is I don’t know what Kamali’s been through, other than the Olympics. And a lot of that was my fault.
“Good.” His words are clipped like he doesn’t really believe me. “So if you’ve got some kind of issue with the ascenders, how about you take it far away from here?”
The Resistance is feeling less friendly by the moment, but there’s no way
I’m letting Tristan order me away. “Commander Astoria seems to want me to stick around.”
He looks unimpressed. “You’re apparently good for PR. For now. But I know you’re just here for the gen tech. Fair enough. Take it and leave. Some of us have been in the Resistance our entire lives, and if you’re not here for the cause, we don’t need you.” Then he leans in, his face inches away. “And if I find out that I’m wrong—that you’re actually the one who betrayed us—trust me when I say I’m going to come looking for you personally. No matter where you go.”
“I’m not the spy.” I can feel the growl in my words.
“I said that to Kamali, too.” He leans back, voice cool again. “I hope you don’t make me a liar.” He sweeps an arm toward the door. “They’re waiting for you, sir.”
My face is hot, but if I stay, we’ll end up exchanging blows, not words. I give Tristan a glare before striding back toward the entrance. Cyrus hesitates then covers my back as we retreat.
Once we’re on the threshold of the pod, Cyrus says, “I would really like to give that guy a piece of my mind.” By which he means his fist.
“It’s all right, Cy,” whisper, but I know him. He’ll drop it for now, but he won’t forget.
The sniffling and soft crying inside the pod quashes any urge to talk. Somehow the air glows with the light of a hundred stars. As my eyes adjust, I see it’s a virtual—the walls are dark wells of space, and pinpoints of light float in the air above the milling crowd. Most are dressed in regulation formal black like Cyrus. A few are still in their fatigues. A cluster of people stand up front, next to a podium—Delphina in the middle, at military ease in her all-black combat gear; Kamali to the right, her black dress reflecting the virtual stars. But next to her… Lenora shines like the sun. Her entirely white dress flows to the floor like a waterfall. Leopold stands at her side, glowing in his high-necked ascender-fabric suit.
I want to stay in back and blend into the crowd, but Cyrus motions me forward. My throat tightens as I realize: I’m expected up front. And I’m obviously straggling in. As I drag myself forward, Cyrus peels off to join Basha in the crowd. Everyone is standing: there are no chairs, just the empty space of the virtual. I belatedly realize my mom is at the front of the crowd, dressed in black and settled into a maglev mobile chair. Cyrus and Basha stand beside her. Behind them are Grayson and Caleb, the augments from the mission. Caleb’s arm is now entirely black metal, his injury being replaced by a new augment. I know the med tech is fast, but I’m still amazed he’s already using it like it’s fully healed.
As I step up to the front, Kamali doesn’t meet my gaze: her eyes are glassy and locked on the mourners. Lenora’s stare is hot on my face, so I avoid looking at her. Delphina acknowledges me with a short nod. I take a position by her side, facing the crowd.
Commander Astoria steps up to the podium, and the whispers cease. She takes a breath, pauses, then intones, “Valentina Fantozzi.” Her voice is deep and solemn and tinged with a lilting French accent. An image of a girl in flight helmet materializes against the infinite black of the walls. She has a wry, cocky grin for whoever snapped the picture.
My throat closes up. She probably flew the transport, the one that was lost. I didn’t know her.
“Pierre Beaumont.” Another floating image, this one surly with dark eyes and disheveled hair. I recognize him as one of the militia, but I never knew his name.
“Christoph Courtier.” This time I don’t recognize the fresh-faced kid with the wide toothy smile, but a sob escapes someone in the room, and I feel it like a slap. This kid is barely old enough to shave.
One by one, the names are called, and the images line the edges of the pod, smiling and scowling down on us, filling the room with their presence. Each one feels like a strike on my chest, closing off my air. The seventeenth one is the soldier who died in front of me.
“Ayala Karim.” She’s twirling in her picture, arms flung wide, the purple silks of her dress flaring out. A chill sweeps through me as I realize: it’s the same dress. The one I saw in the fugue state, after the flash grenade. I’ve never seen it before. How did my brain dream up something I had no way of knowing?
I’m having a hard time breathing. Quiet sobs fill the air. Commander Astoria steps back, her face wet with tears she hasn’t tried to wipe away. Kamali’s face is painted with tear tracks as well. Delphina pulls in a long draught of air before stepping forward.
The sounds of mourning fall into a deep, collective sigh.
“You were lost.” Delphina lifts her hands to the frozen faces of the dead. “Lost to our eyes. Lost to our ears. Lost to our hearts, as if you ever really belonged to us. Yet you loved us so hard, our lights trembled. You were flesh and bone and anger. Your fists beat the dull ache of the world into a righteous sword. Then you slashed the knot of fear holding your fellow humans captive, giving everything you had to deliver hope to those who’d forgotten they’re more than playthings. More than flesh. More than the legacy of DNA in our bodies. You were the hands that held, the boots that marched, the mouths that kissed. You were the Creator intertwined with flesh for a brief, shining moment, hot and bright by our sides.”
She sweeps out her hands, and the faces disappear. “And then you were lost.”
Her arms drop. The soft wind of breath-leaving-bodies brushes the room. “The world has a hole in the shape of you. A black vacuum that wrenches blood from our hearts in the shape of tears. Your flesh is gone, burnt by weapons of light and electricity, but the essence of you lives on in a place where love sweeps away all pains, all suffering, all tears. We can only imagine what you see. We’re like children on tiptoes, peering through the glass and hoping for a glimpse of heaven.”
She slowly lifts her hands, palms out to the rapt faces of the crowd. “You gave your bones to be broken, your flesh to be torn. Yet you are not fallen, but lifted. Not broken, but healed. You are children of the Creator, and that Creator never lost sight of you, never missed a single word or laugh or kiss.”
“You are not lost. You are found.” She lowers her hands. “And we are the ones left waiting for the coming day, still trapped in this life like fish in a pond, unable to see past the surface. We look up, and there’s only a mirror reflecting our faces as we search for those who have gone ahead.”
There’s a moment of silence, a held breath. Then a murmur wells up, soft whispers of agreement and gratitude. Delphina steps back to line up with me and Kamali. That seems to be a signal—everyone starts to move, rustling slightly, then one by one, small, flickering lights appear in the crowd. Cyrus, Basha, and my mom each have a flame floating in the palms of their hands. Must be another virtual. Everyone has one.
The dark has turned into a sea of living flames.
Delphina passes one to me. It’s a thin disc that projects a flame as soon as I tap it.
I bend to ask her, “What is this coming day you’re talking about?” I keep it a whisper. I don’t know if Kamali has heard me—she seems focused on the crowd.
“There are many who believe a savior is coming to deliver us,” Delphina says, not quite as quietly. It attracts Kamali’s attention, and I feel like an idiot for asking.
My face heats, but I press on. “What kind of savior, exactly?”
She narrows her eyes. “A holy man. Or woman. Someone who will usher in a new transcendent age, liberating humanity from their earthly bonds and opening up a new world. The coming one will bridge the veil between the living and the dead.”
Bridge. I try not to flinch. It’s just a word, I tell myself.
Delphina continues, “Different traditions have different names for it, but it’s the same idea. A new age. An end of times that signals the beginning of our true, eternal lives.”
I frown. “You’re talking about ascendance, only… by another name. Ascendance without the nanites. Is this is a thing believers think will actually happen?
“Many do.” She gave a small, cryptic smile.
“But not you.” I flick
a look to Kamali. She’s watching us with intense interest, but her lips are pressed tight. Her flame throws a golden sheen that dances across the warm chocolate of her face. I look away before my stare becomes too obvious.
Delphina is examining me. Then she says, slowly and carefully, “I believe we cannot wait for a savior. We need to deliver ourselves.”
I nod in agreement—mostly because that’s a reasonable thing to have people die for, not religious crazy-talk.
Kamali turns away from us and drifts into the crowd, which is breaking up. The ceremony is done, and people are gathering into small groups, hugging, consoling, and crying. Delphina wades into the sea of flames, and even Lenora and Leopold mingle with the mourners.
I’m alone on the stage. And I’m starting to think Tristan is right—I should leave the Resistance before too many people decide I’m the spy who betrayed them.
Or worse: the savior they’re waiting for. Because when I end up disappointing them, it’s not going to go well for me.
I am not their spy. I am not their savior.
This mantra has been on an endless repeat in my head since the remembrance ceremony two days ago. I’ve been avoiding everyone, but I have a really good excuse—my mom is finally getting her gen tech treatments. The med bot gave her the third and last treatment an hour ago. Three treatments over three days, the last two of which have been filled with fevers and sweats. It’s just a matter of time before she’s completely recovered, assuming the meds actually work—but I have more faith in the ascenders’ tech than I do in their ability to tell the truth.
I’ve spent the last two days by her bedside, thinking about what a tremendous mess I’m in. And how to get out of it.
According to Basha and Tristan, rumors about me are practically an Olympic sport in the Resistance camp, and everyone’s competing. Either I’m the spy that betrayed the op—and there aren’t leads on anyone else yet—or I’m some kind of leader that the Resistance has been waiting for. Or I’m a danger to the cause because I’ve got a crazy ascender—Marcus, although I suspect most of them are insane—out to find me. Tristan’s right about that much.
The Duality Bridge (Singularity #2) (Singularity Series) Page 6
