The Duality Bridge (Singularity #2) (Singularity Series)

by Susan Kaye Quinn

  Or maybe I’m just a jerk who hurt Kamali. Tristan’s probably right about that, too. All of which points to me being a short-timer in the Resistance.

  The only problem is there’s nowhere else to go. None of us—me, my mom, Cyrus—can go back to Seattle. The dissenter reservations are basically lawless. Or worse, bloody theocracies. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. Who knows what’s really out there—but I’m certain it’s no place for my mom. I can’t imagine Cyrus wants to leave anyway. He has Basha, he’s probably a believer now, and he’s always wanted a way to get back at the ascenders. All things considered, the Resistance is the best place for him, too.

  Which means it’s really me that’s leaving.

  Now that my mom’s treatments are finished, I need to get out. Or try to fight all the rumors so I can stay. I’ve been running around this circle in my head for two days.

  What I can’t figure out is why me?

  The spy, I understand. Marcus is obviously after me, so that makes sense. It’s the part about the coming one that I don’t get. Is it simply because they saw me compete in the Olympics, so they think I’m some kind of dark-horse hero, coming in from nowhere? Are the members of the Resistance so desperate to believe their transcendence day is at hand that anyone the least bit strange could be their savior?

  Kamali knows I have visions during the fugue, and there’s no telling who she’s told that bit of juicy gossip to—obviously Basha. Probably Tristan, now that I think about it. Thinking about it makes me cringe. Cyrus knows the fugue might be more than hallucinations, but he’s the last to think I’m the bridge to anywhere. Lenora, Leopold, and my mother know the truth about the experiments—but none of them know about the visions.

  All told, it’s Tristan’s words that haunt me the most: Some say you’re the one the Resistance has been waiting for. Because even if no one knows the whole story, apparently everyone suspects: something is different about me.

  They just don’t know exactly what. Yet.

  I watch as my mom turns over in her med bay bed. She’s restless. The med bot said twenty-four more hours before we’ll know definitively if the treatments worked. Another week before she’s up to full strength. The bot drifts over and takes her temperature, then drifts away. It’s enough motion and slow mechanical sound to pull her from her light sleep. She opens her eyes, closes and rubs them, then finally sits up.

  “How’re you feeling?” I ask.

  “Good.” And she looks good, too, even if the flush in her cheeks is still the fever from the gen tech battling the lymphoma. That’s what has to happen.

  “You look good,” I say with real enthusiasm. “Maybe we should get you out of here, go for a walk or something?” We both need some fresh air. And at some point, we need to talk, but not until I’ve sorted this out for myself.

  She nods but doesn’t make any moves to get out of bed. “Maybe this afternoon. I’m hungry, though. That’s a good sign, right?”

  I rise up from the maglev stool that’s been my perch for the last hour. “That’s a great sign. You want me to get something from the mess hall? Breakfast is over, but I’m sure I can snag something for you.”

  She gives me a weak smile, but it’s stronger than yesterday’s attempts.

  I’m halfway to the door before I turn back to ask, “Oatmeal?”

  She makes a face.

  I grin. “How about eggs?”

  “The eggs are a lie. Reformulated protein. Lenora told me.” But she seems less disgusted by that than by the tasteless porridge.

  “Ascenders,” I snarl, but it’s light-hearted. “They spoil everything.”

  A voice comes from behind me. “Hopefully, not everything.”

  I startle, then spin to find the door suddenly open and Lenora in it. I’ve been avoiding her pretty successfully. Cyrus doesn’t trust her, and after my last vision of everyone dying, I’ve no interest in going into the fugue state again. Ever.

  “Just kidding,” I say to her, trying to fake a smile and gesture so she’ll let me pass.

  She steps back. “I’ll walk with you.”

  Great. I clamp my mouth shut and resolve to speak as little as possible on the way to the mess hall. After a moment of earnest strides for me and cool ascender steps for her, one of her delicate hands tugs on my elbow.

  I don’t stop. “I need to get my mom something to eat.”

  “We need to talk, Eli. About your father.”

  That stops me dead. My mouth moves, but nothing comes out.

  “I know.” She drops her gaze to her fingers, which are laced together and twisting. “I should have shared all of this with you much sooner.”

  “Yes, you should have.” My voice is working again, but the words are harsh.

  She looks up. “I promise, I have been protecting you, Eli. The ascender who worked with your mother—”

  “Worked?” My voice hikes up. “You mean used her as a lab rat, right? I just want to make sure we get our terms straight.”

  She holds my angry stare, not backing down. “She was never forced. Your mother knew our group’s purpose was to create you. Don’t you see? If you are expressing something now, some true sign of what you were designed to do… then your father will be coming for you. And I doubt there’s anything I could do to stop him.”

  I lean back. “Coming for me.” I can feel my heart thump once, then twice. A feeling of dread turns my body slack. “Why?”

  “Why?” She looks at me like I’m hopelessly stupid, which only rages fire up into my face. She glances around, but the camp is quiet. In between meals, everyone’s either in their tent or out patrolling the perimeter or off doing their duties to keep things running smoothly. The only activity is a game of four-square several barracks away, with two teams of two, a ball, and some chalked-out areas on the grass.

  Lenora leans closer. She’s back to wearing the standard ascender barely-there shift, so I can see wisps of purplish emotion wash across her skin. “I already told you,” she says softly. “You are the bridge. At least, that was your design.”

  “Wait—are you saying there were other designs?” My mind is reeling.

  She shakes her head, frustrated. “Never mind that. What I need to know—what you have to tell me—is if you’re experiencing anything that might be a precursor. An awakening. I’m not even sure what the right word for it would be—we are discovering this along with you. I was certain that self-awareness on your part would inhibit the expression. I thought we had a way around that inhibition—that with enough time and patience, your abilities would express through your art. In the meantime, I simply couldn’t take the chance of telling you what might happen.”

  “Because it might ruin your experiment.” I retreat back into anger, because honestly, I don’t want to know. As far as I’m concerned, the fugue is a mental problem I’ll just have to manage and minimize in the future. I’m certainly not going after it—there’s no way I could remain in the Resistance if word of that got out.

  “Yes, it would have ruined the experiment. And the experiment was too important for that.” She’s angry too, at least by her clipped words. Her beautiful, perfect face settles into a glare. “I was afraid that, if you had known, everything would have been for nothing. All the lies. All the risks so many have taken to keep your secret safe—”

  “Even from me.”

  “Even from you.” Some of the anger drops off her face. “I regret that, now that I see it probably would have made no difference at all.”

  “So you regret lying to me, but only because it didn’t work.” I have to restrain my snarl.

  “Eli.” Her fists ball up, and gray wisps curl along her neck.

  Satisfaction courses through me. I can’t be sure if she’s angry or frustrated, but it’s about time she experienced some of that, and not just me.

  “Now that you are self-aware,” she says, slow and measured, “there’s no reason to keep anything from you. We can take it one step at a time—I know how hard all of
this must be for you to comprehend. But first, you need to tell me everything you have been experiencing. So we can properly manage it.”

  I narrow my eyes. Being managed by ascenders—even Lenora—isn’t something I ever want happening again. “I told you: I’m not experiencing anything.”

  “I know that’s not true.” She gives me a stern look. “You’ve been affected by something. And if I can see that much, then your father—”

  My face heats again. “Whoever my “father” is, he can go straight to—”

  “Eli,” Cyrus arrives at my side, breathless. I was so focused on Lenora, I didn’t even see him coming. “I need to talk to you, my man.” He’s giving the side-eye to Lenora. I’m sure he thinks I’m spilling everything to her—but I’m really not her little pawn anymore.

  “I’m on my way to the mess hall,” I say to him, but I’m looking at Lenora. “Getting some breakfast for my mom.”

  “Great,” he says, grabbing hold of my elbow, none too gently. “I’ll give you a hand.”

  Fresh curls of gray wisp across Lenora’s skin as Cyrus tugs me away.

  Once we’re sufficiently far from Lenora, I say, “Thanks,” to Cyrus for extricating me.

  He doesn’t say anything, just waves me down between two barracks. I hesitate. This isn’t the way to the mess hall. I lift my hands in a what gives? gesture, but the hard set of his mouth and his urgent waving have me hustling down the shadowed corridor between the canvas tents.

  When we’re halfway down, he says, “You can’t tell Lenora anything.”

  “I know,” I say, scowling. “I’m not a complete idiot.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes I wonder about that.”

  “Thanks.” As we round the corner, back into the sunshine, I see where he’s bringing me...

  Kamali. She has her back to us, gazing out at the fields beyond the camp’s protective dome barrier.

  “Oh, come on,” I say in a hushed voice, stopping in my tracks. My glare is for Cyrus, but when Kamali turns around, she catches some of it, and frowns. I struggle to wipe the expression from my face, but I’m ready to punch my best friend.

  “My mom really does need something to eat, Cy.”

  He has his hands up, so he knows I’m ready to kill him. “I’ll get her the best of whatever they’ve got in the mess hall.” He holds out one hand to Kamali. “Just hear her out, okay?”

  Then he backs away, like the coward he is.

  I am seriously going to kill him. Later. When there are no witnesses.

  I glare after his retreating back a moment longer, then steel my expression into neutrality as I turn back to Kamali. She steps closer, holding out a sketch pad and a charcoal pencil in her long-fingered hands. I just stare at them.

  Art supplies.

  I have no idea where she got them. Or why she’s giving them to me.

  When I don’t take them, her pretty face grows more grim. She takes another step toward me and holds them out at arms’ length. “It’s a peace offering, Eli. Take it, so Basha doesn’t kill me.”

  I lurch a little to get close enough to take them. I’m careful not to touch her fingers. Not that I don’t want to, but this suddenly feels like a frozen-over lake with too-thin ice that I’m about crack and sink through. And I don’t want that at all between Kamali and me.

  I just didn’t think there was another option.

  “Um.” Man, I have zero words in me. “Thanks. I guess? I really don’t understand what’s happening here.”

  “Basha says you went to see the Dalai Lama.” Her voice is calm, like she’s practiced the words, and she’s delivering them carefully. Everything about her stance is locked up, which looks horribly unnatural on her dancer body. Her camouflage shirt and pants hang loose on her thin, tall frame, and the boots look like tree stumps on her feet.

  She should be wearing slippers.

  My fingers roll the charcoal pencil between them, itching to draw her.

  “She said the Dalai wasn’t able to help you. That you’re having trouble painting again.” The words are stiff, and she suddenly drops her gaze. Her hands are tormenting each other, twisting and wringing some emotion she’s holding back.

  I just watch and wait. But she doesn’t say anything more. “I’m not having trouble painting.” This is some kind of lie Cyrus and Basha have cooked up, to get me and Kamali together. I can feel their fingerprints on it.

  My words make Kamali look up. Her brown eyes are soft and wide. Open and vulnerable.

  “I could paint you right now, if I had some brushes and acrylics.” It comes out fast, and I can feel the boast in it, which I regret, even though I know I could easily do it. Want to do it, the way a parched man wants water. With the knowledge I gained from the fugue state and her beautiful form for inspiration… it would be incandescent.

  My boast draws a smile out of her, banishing my regret in an instant. “I saw the painting you made of me for the competition. It was a fugue painting, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I say, feeling the need to boast creep back in. “But I know how to do it again—I could recreate it for you right now.”

  She smiles and ducks her head, and it flushes entirely too much warmth through me. I want her to ask me to do it. Or even just allow me. My fingers roll the charcoal pencil again, but I hold still, waiting.

  Her face is wide-eyed and serious when she looks up again. “I never said thank you.”

  I lift one eyebrow. “For the painting?”

  She smiles again, but it’s fleeting. “For offering yourself in trade for me.” Her brown cheeks tinge red, and she drops her gaze again. “I know it was mostly for Lenora. But you didn’t have to ask for me and Basha and Delphina, too.” She looks up and bites her lip. “I probably shouldn’t be judgmental about you and her, I just…” She struggles for words, gaze casting around in embarrassment.

  I hold still, not breathing, waiting.

  Her eyes find me again. “I’ve just seen it happen, up close and personal. And it doesn’t end well. For the human.”

  Up close? I’m dying to ask who she knows that was in love with an ascender, but the red tinge in her cheeks is growing brighter, even as she holds my gaze.

  I shrug with one shoulder. “Maybe someday you can tell me what happened.”

  That breaks the intensity, and she smiles. “Maybe.”

  “Anyway,” I rush out, “Lenora isn’t exactly my favorite person right now.”

  She peers at me. “I’d like to hear the full story on that. Someday.”

  I grin. “Maybe.”

  She breathes a kind of silent laugh that entrances me. Her shoulders drop, her hands release each other, and her whole body seems to relax. I can’t help smiling even wider.

  She cocks her head, playfully. “So, you could draw me right now, huh?”

  I swear I can hear my own heart pounding in my ears. “Only if you’re dancing.”

  She smirks. “If I start dancing, it will bring a crowd.”

  I frown because the last thing I want is to share this moment with anyone. Especially Tristan. “That would be unfortunate.”

  She nods. Her playful look turns more devious. She darts a look around, beckons me with a crooked finger, then prances along the line of barracks with light dancer steps in her big, heavy boots. I hurry after her without hesitation. She’s killing me with the cute looks she’s throwing back, like we’re about to get away with something. As we near the end of the camp grounds, next to the command pod, I realize I may only have a few days left in the Resistance—and once I leave, I may never see Kamali again. I vow to make the most of whatever time she’ll give me. And whatever she’s got planned.

  We reach the command pod, but she keeps going. Around back is a smaller pod: the armory. I watch with wide eyes as she pulls out a key on a chain from underneath her shirt and waves it at the door. It slides open, and with a quick look around, she ushers me inside. I think maybe she can dance in here without attracting notice, but it’s too cramped. B
lack assault rifles, clusters of grenades of all kinds, and racks of gear line the walls and overflow from the bins stacked alongside them.

  She swipes the door closed behind me. Her smile is contagious.

  I pick up a flight helmet. “Let me guess: we’re hijacking the commander’s transport and going for a joy ride.” I smirk, but I have absolutely no idea where she’s going with this.

  “Even better.” She digs into a cabinet, and a moment later, she comes out with a bunch of shimmery blue fabric and two helmets with visors. “Invisibility suits.”

  I grin so hard it makes my cheeks hurt.

  “I had no idea you were so sneaky.”

  I squeeze Kamali’s hand as I say it, so she’ll know I’m kidding. And I’m kind of glad she can’t see the stupid grin plastered on my face. But I can’t see hers either.

  We’re invisible.

  “I’m a resistance fighter.” Her voice comes through the tiny comm unit in my helmet. “We get sneakiness training.”

  I laugh but try to keep it cool. The sound still ricochets in the tight airspace around my head. We’re tromping through the field outside the camp’s protective dome with our ascender-tech cloaking suits. The jacket and pants are loose-fitting but heavy enough to ditch our standard-issue camouflage and just wear tanktops and shorts underneath. The cloaking gear is activated by chin controls inside the helmet, which is pretty lightweight—with the visors down, we’re completely invisible.

  I’ve got my sketch pad in one hand, and Kamali’s hand in the other, so we don’t lose each other. I can’t see her at all, and vice versa. The cloak automatically extends to anything I’m holding, so my boots and art supplies are invisible, too. There’s a slight shimmer where our hands connect and the fields from our respective suits intersect.

  I’m dumbfounded by my sudden turn in good luck: Kamali’s taking me out somewhere so we can be alone, her dancing and me drawing, and I get to hold her hand along the way.