I swallow and glance back at Cyrus, who’s giving hard looks to Leopold and his tech interface. I gingerly hold the cool edge of the pod and slide inside. The mist obscures some of the inner casing, but there’s clearly a corrugated shelf at the bottom with space for two human feet.
While I’m stepping up, adjusting to make sure all my parts are inside the chamber, I hear Cyrus speak up. “What are the dangers of this procedure?”
Leopold answers like he’s lecturing a child. “There are no dangers. Unless your agonite has an artificial heart he failed to disclose on the intake forms or any kind of implant—”
A hiss of gas cuts him off, and the chamber clamps shut around me. It’s dark for a moment, then a blue light flicks on.
Leopold’s voice comes through a tiny speaker hidden somewhere behind the mist. “Place your hands flat on the plate in front of you.”
The mist starts gushing into the chamber, filling it with churning blue clouds that I can’t help but breathe in. It tastes of bitter antiseptics and chlorine, and it clears out my sinuses like I’m breathing straight rubbing alcohol. I rub my face only to discover the blue mist is sliming me with some kind of coating. It starts to cling to my eyelashes. Belatedly, I close my eyes to keep it out. I fumble to place my hands on the plate. Cold metal handcuffs snap over them, which jolts my eyes open again. Sure enough, my hands are locked down on the plate. The coolness of it infuses and numbs my skin.
“Hey,” I say loudly, wondering if the pod is equipped with a microphone. “What’s the deal with—”
My words are cut off by a row of needles jabbing into my wrists.
“Hey!” I hold my breath, but the pain doesn’t come. The needles are injecting something, or possibly draining blood, but they’re painless. The mist starts to thin, and a blue ring of light pulses from the top of the pod to the bottom and back again, scanning me. The needles retract from my wrists, replaced by pressure for a moment, and then that is gone as well.
Leopold’s voice comes through the speaker again. “Please hold your hand still for the stamp.”
“The what?” I ask.
“Your implant.” The irritation in Leopold’s voice makes me imagine Marcus outside the pod, cringing at my ignorance. “It identifies your art, gives you access to areas you’re authorized for, records your intake procedure and various other things. Hold still so it takes well the first time. I assure you it would be better not to have to remove the implant and repeat the process.”
I gulp and hold my hand as still as humanly possible. “Um… okay.”
I expect a jab from below, like the needles, but instead a brilliant blue light beams on the top of my left hand. It forms the shape of the Greek letter alpha, and my skin smokes a little. It freaks me out entirely, but I manage to hold my hand still until it’s done. The blue light switches off, but my hand still glows, the new neon tattoo adding its own pale light to the dim interior of the pod. A blast of warm air from below steams off the gel that coats my body.
A hiss precedes the cracking open of the pod once more. My ears pop, and my legs are shaking again as I step down. I grip the side to keep upright.
Cyrus shoves a blue uniform that feels like weightless silk into my hand. “You okay?” His face is open with concern, and he grips my shoulders like he’s afraid I might fall down. My hand feels numb, and there are nearly invisible bandages where the needles stuck me, but overall, it was more freaky than painful.
“Yeah,” I say, a little wheezy from the mist. “I’m fine, just…” I turn the stamp on the back of my hand toward him. “…getting a tattoo.”
He huffs a laugh.
I shift away from him and bend to step into my uniform. It’s all one piece, like Leopold’s uniform, and glides over my skin like it’s made of air.
“You will need to remove your clothing as well, Mr. Kowalski,” says Leopold.
I jerk my head up to look at Cyrus. His shock fades quicker than I expect, and he starts to shuck off his clothes.
“Doesn’t hurt, right?” he asks me, like he expects it to hurt like crazy, and he wants me to lie to him.
“No more painful than watching you paint.” I cough out the mist that still coats my lungs.
He snorts. “Hey, I don’t need to paint. I can get girls the old fashioned way.”
“Bad jokes?”
“Pity dates.” He climbs into the pod.
It hisses and closes around him.
I’m struck by how many things I can never repay Cyrus for.
Agon is shaped like the spirals of a snail laid on its side.
Marcus leads us deep into the center. The curved and winding corridors are strangely empty. The spotless steel floors and swooping white walls remind me of Lenora’s apartment: the ascenders sure like their walls without edges. Doors line the hall, each with a small window. Most are dialed opaque, but Cyrus and I sneak looks into the ones that are clear. One room is mirrored, obviously a dance studio. Another is a tiny closet with a desk and chair. They’re both vacant.
We reach a large, windowless door, and Marcus points to its scanner. “Your imprint gives you access to the Lounge twenty-four hours a day, but I recommend only visiting at meal times.” He gives Cyrus and me stern looks. “In fact, you should restrict yourselves to your room or your studio, and when you must travel, don’t go alone.”
I think Marcus’s electronic brain has had some kind of short, but Cyrus’s face locks up, like he’s been given a signal to arm for battle.
“You think Eli’s in danger,” he says. “From who? The other competitors?”
Marcus regards Cyrus anew. “The stakes are high for the agonites. This is their one and only chance to attain all the benefits of the ascender world. The prospect of failing and returning to their legacy cities, after coming so close, is daunting.”
“Yeah, well… somehow I’m sure they’ll manage to carry on with their insignificant human lives.” The frost in Cyrus’s voice hikes my shoulders up. His ascender-loathing is going to mess this up before we even get started.
But Marcus ignores him. A sweep of gray darkens his chest. “Your competitors will stop at little in their efforts to eliminate you.” He pauses. “There have already been two deaths this year.”
“What?” Alarm trips through my body. “You mean… somebody’s killing the… but, I haven’t heard anything about that on the net.” I wrack my brain, thinking back on previous Olympics. I vaguely remember agonites dropping out before the competition, but I don’t remember any deaths.
“It’s always kept quiet until after the games,” Marcus says, coolly. “Faced with losing, it’s plausible some agonites would take their own lives. At least, that’s what the families are told. Given the amount of pathology inherent in human creatives and the pressure of the games, it’s not difficult to believe.”
“You ascenders are a real piece of work, you know that?” Cyrus is pissed.
I hold my hands out to Marcus. “He doesn’t mean it like that.”
He lifts his chin to look down his nose at me. It’s a challenge. “The games are a dangerous business, Eli. I assumed the risk was worth your mother’s life. Or are you having second thoughts?”
I stand straighter. “I’m here to win.”
Marcus nods approvingly. “The stakes are high for the agonites, but they’re even higher for the sponsors. And the ascender world at large.”
My eyebrows hike up. “So what exactly are you getting out of this?” I can hardly believe I get to ask him flat-out like this.
“Once you cross the threshold of Agon, you become a possible future ascender,” he says. “But the games are not merely, or even primarily, for the benefit of the legacies. The law strictly restricts the sentience of new forms, and the ascender population has been essentially fixed since the final ascendance. However, the hunger—or psychological need, one might say—for reproduction is still very strong. The games provide an outlet for that need. It’s not just the chance to discover a new talent; it’s the ability to creat
e a new life. The winning sponsors garner tremendous social status, but all ascenders benefit—not just from the entertainment, but from the emotional release of bringing new ascenders into the world.”
Cyrus looks disgusted. “So the legacies who win… they’re like baby ascenders?”
Marcus nods. “And what would you do to win the right to bring a new life into existence?”
Cyrus pales and glances at me.
The thought of being Marcus’s “baby” makes me slightly nauseous. Along with the idea that somehow I’m only truly alive once I ascend. “So… great. The winners are the newest ascender on the block and everyone’s happy. But it’s not like you can rig the competition.” I can’t help a glance at Cyrus, who is back to looking like he’s girding for war. “I mean, everyone just has to do their best and—”
Marcus cuts me off with a dead serious look. Tendrils of black wisp across his chest to punctuate it. “Do not underestimate what the sponsors will do to sway the competition. The fact that tampering with the games is a capital offense is only a slight deterrent.”
“Capital offense?” I lean away. It’s never occurred to me that ascenders might commit crimes against other ascenders. I had assumed they were above all that. “Wait… I thought ascenders lived forever.”
“Capital punishment for an ascender isn’t death, Eli. It’s permanent storage.”
Not sure what that is, but it sounds bad. “I’m guessing no one wants that.”
“No. Most sponsors stay within the law.” He waves off my confused look. “You can study up on the regulations tonight. For now, no physical altercations, no altering your implant, and no tampering with security of any kind. Those will get you thrown out of the competition.”
I give Cyrus a warning glance. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”
Marcus’s coloration is back to a more normal brownish-pink. “There are also legal ways to influence the competition. Watch out for anything that distracts you, anyone who shows an undue interest in you, and any attempts to destroy your confidence. Orion considers surviving such attempts a reasonable measure of your character and focus.”
I’m thinking my confidence is already on the ropes, given I have no idea how to master the fugue… and no chance of winning without it.
Marcus glances at the still-closed door to the Lounge then tilts his head to the scanner. “Log yourself in. Bring your food back to your room. Less mingling with the other agonites means less opportunity for mischief.”
I wave my hand at the scanner. My implant pulses blue light in the shape of an alpha then the door slides open. Every agonite and support team member appears to be inside.
Hundreds of people cluster in twos and threes at the tables. There are a few ascender sponsors but mostly agonites. It’s a parade of the four colors of the games—the blue of my uniform, as well as green, yellow, and red for the other arts. The competitors are eating and talking, but there’s not much laughing. The noise is still impressive, bouncing off the hard walls and floating up to fill the two-storied room. Screens on the walls rotate through selections of all the arts: vids of dancers, panned images of drawings, silent renditions of musicians playing. Suddenly I’m wondering about the ones not pictured—the ones who were “eliminated” so these ones could win. My attention is drawn back to earth by a small shriek and a clatter of something crashing to the floor at my feet.
“Oh! I’m so sorry! Oh my gosh! I didn’t see you!” The frantic rambling is coming from a petite, dark-haired girl in a red uniform next to Cyrus. She’s Arabic, with delicate features and dark brown eyes. Her lunch tray is on the floor next to a smear of sandwiches, a smashed piece of chocolate cake, and two cups that have spewed their orange contents.
Cyrus is wearing half the liquid. “It’s okay. Really.”
“No, no, it’s not! I’m such a clumsy—oh no!” The girl covers her mouth with both hands, her eyes going wide with horror as she takes in Cyrus’s uniform. “I’ve ruined your uniform.”
She looks like she might actually cry. I stare in amazement.
“Hey, now,” Cyrus says softly. “I’m sure these shiny pants sponsors can spare another one.” He’s at least a couple feet taller and probably a hundred pounds heavier, but Cyrus is in full charm mode now. Which makes my chest tight. We don’t know this girl. She appears about as threatening as a kitten, but that could mean nothing.
Marcus hangs back, watching her carefully, but not moving to interfere. Maybe there’s a rule about that too. I make a mental note that I really need to study up on this stuff. Soon.
The girl drops her hands from her face and shakes them out. She seems to be blinking back tears. “I’m sorry. I promise I didn’t mean to. It’s just… just…” She takes a breath and looks up into Cyrus’s eyes. “I’m not normally this… this…” She’s drowning in some kind of panic that mystifies me.
Cyrus touches her shoulder gently, calming her. “I promise you, I’ve survived much worse than an attack by orange juice.”
Another girl in a red uniform arrives at the first one’s side, and says, sharply, “Basha! What are you doing?” She tugs the girl none-too-gently away from Cyrus, eyeing him like he’s a lion intent on eating her friend. Her eyes are liquid brown, and her skin is the color of slightly melted chocolate, but the softness ends there. Her cheeks are high and carved, and her teeth are white and fierce behind full lips. The arch of her bony fingers makes it look like she’s going to take Cyrus with her bare hands.
He steps back. “I was just—”
“No, no, Kamali, I’m fine, I’m fine,” the petite one says, patting her arm. “It was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
Her friend Kamali is lean to the point of ridiculousness, but she towers over her short friend like an angry, brown tree. She finally takes in the mess at our feet and seems to put it together. Her alarm steps down a few notches, but she still levels suspicious looks at Cyrus, then me, then Marcus. It’s the ascender among us that finally turns her warm brown eyes cold.
“Let’s go,” Kamali says to her friend, taking her by the shoulders and guiding her away. The way she moves—contained, purposeful, with a grace that’s unnatural—has me watching her until they’re obscured by the sea of colorful uniforms.
“That was really strange,” I say finally. Cyrus is watching them, too, and I don’t like the look on his face. Like he wishes the short, Arabic-looking one—I think her name is Basha—would come back.
“Generally speaking, you won’t need to worry about agonites from drama, or any of the other arts,” Marcus says, speaking for the first time through the whole event. “You’re not competing against them, and most are too focused on their training to engage in espionage. I would, however, avoid anyone in artem if at all possible.” He splays a hand toward the food line, and we slowly make our way that direction. “You are new, and that will automatically garner suspicion. It will get worse as we near the competition.”
Hot stares follow us as we make our dinner selections—fresh-roasted turkey and salad greens, far better than the processed meat and canned vegetables in our grocery allotment in Seattle. Cyrus and I get our dinners packaged to take to our room. On the way out, I glare back at the sea of faces tracking us, especially the ones in blue artem uniforms.
My competition. I wonder who they are. Artem encompasses all the visual arts, so they could be working in any media, not just paint. Everyone is young, of course. Given the fact that you can only compete once, most are close to the eighteen-year-old age limit, to give themselves the maximum advantage. I wish I had paid more attention to the current crop of Olympians before Marcus’s sponsorship suddenly dropped into my lap.
Marcus leads us again through the spiraling maze of hallways. I’m completely lost. He finally stops at a door and instructs us to log ourselves in. It’s a small apartment, just a couple of beds, a couch, a large screen on the wall, and a bathroom.
“Your screen has access to all the Olympic regulations.” Marcus pu
rses his lips. “Make sure you understand them. Your studio will be equipped with everything you need by tomorrow morning.”
I take it all in, then turn to Marcus. “Thank you. For everything.”
He arches an eyebrow and seems to be holding back a smirk. “I’ll return tomorrow.”
“You’re not staying? Here at Agon, I mean?”
The nascent smirk fades away. “Sponsor contact is limited to specific training hours. Previous experience has shown that too much sponsor presence at Agon can lead to an unfortunately high loss of agonites.”
That makes me swallow.
Cyrus sweeps a look around the room. “Is Eli safe here?”
“Your room and your studio are the most secure,” Marcus says. “There are no cameras or recording devices allowed—to keep competitors from gaining an unfair advantage over one another—and you are the only ones with access. Even I cannot enter without your permission.”
Cyrus raises an eyebrow. “Good to know.”
Marcus tips his head to me. “I’ll stop by your studio tomorrow afternoon to check on your progress.” He turns and leaves us alone in our new apartment.
The door barely slides shut before Cyrus is doing something that’s probably illegal to our screen. “Do you really think the games are as dangerous as Marcus makes out?” I ask.
“Either that or he’s trying to scare us.” Cyrus throws me a look over his shoulder, but his hands are busy manipulating the virtual controls of the screens. “And I don’t see the upside there for him.”
“Agreed,” I say with a frown.
“I’ll study the rules, bro,” Cyrus says, eyes back on the screen. “You hit the sack.”
“Just don’t tamper with the security, like Marcus said. Or pirate any ascender tech until after I win. Deal?”
“I won’t take anything they’ll miss.”
I snort and turn away.
“I call the bed on the left!” he says, not looking at me or the furniture.
“Whatever, man. They’re identical.”
“Obviously not. Or I wouldn’t be calling the superior one.”
The Legacy Human (Singularity #1) (Singularity Series) Page 8
