Kamali rises up and heads back to the access panel. I follow her out of her secret hideout, hoping that when I return tomorrow to the stage above, I’ll somehow be able to paint something worthy of the ascenders who will be watching.
We’ve barely got the access panel back in place before Delphina shows up.
She looks affronted by my presence. All the girls must be in on the secret hideout—only it’s not so secret anymore, now that I’m here. Kamali and Delphina are having some kind of wordless conversation with raised eyebrows and pointed looks.
Kamali hands me the canvas with my sketch and holds up her hands. “I was just helping Eli practice his art.”
Tension hangs in the air like the static charge before a thunderstorm. It lifts the small hairs on the back of my neck. Does Delphina think Kamali brought me here to make out, like Cyrus and Basha before us? Is jealousy the thing that’s charging the air? I can’t tell. After a long, considered moment, Delphina nods.
“Basha was concerned,” she says to Kamali. “You missed dinner.”
“This was important,” Kamali replies.
I like hearing those words more than I want to admit. And Delphina seems to accept them, but I don’t know what that means. Then I glimpse someone down the hall, and any warm feelings run cold.
Marcus strides toward us, six-foot-three of ascender anger. His bare feet make no noise, but my anxious stare draws Delphina’s attention like a magnet. She whips around just as he arrives. Her body goes stiff, hands curled into fists, almost as if she thinks Marcus is here to physically fight her.
Me: I’m pretty sure Marcus is pissed I’m not in my studio.
Which just makes me angry right back. Maybe ascenders in their godlike bodyforms and sleepless minds can create 24/7, but I’m still human. I’m doing the best I can.
Delphina stands between us with her ripped uniform, a petite sentinel of righteous anger, determined to take on the ascender intruder.
“Elijah,” Marcus says, ignoring her. “Imagine my surprise to find you here.” His words are clipped. Definitely pissed, although I’m not sure how he found me at all.
“Just taking a walk,” I say.
Marcus eyes Delphina and Kamali. “Time for walking is over.”
“The boy decides when he comes and goes, ascender.” Delphina’s voice is low, but it rivets me in place.
Marcus coolly regards her. “Delphina Astoria, Paris legacy, orphan daughter of Michel and Simone Astoria. I’m always surprised when legacies who seem relatively intelligent do not manage to keep their illegal activities more circumspect. Perhaps your parents wanted to be caught. So like an Astoria to make a dramatic exit, as it were. Etes-vous un élément perturbateur, Delphina Astoria?”
“Vous le saurez quand, à la force de mes seuls mots, je ferai jaillir le pus de votre âme pourrie.” She’s almost spitting the words in his face.
Marcus laughs, but it’s frosted with humorless anger. “When you ascend, Delphina Astoria, I expect you will be the cause of much less trouble than you believe.” Marcus turns to me. “Elijah, we have some matters to discuss before tomorrow. But only if you actually wish to take the gold.”
I give Delphina a tight smile I hope she’ll take for an apology. This is the second time she’s stood up for me, although I’m not sure why she felt the need this time. I step away from the girls, and Marcus turns his back on them without another word.
Once we’re out of earshot, Marcus says, “You need to take care with the company you keep.”
I gesture with my canvas. “I thought you wanted me to work with Kamali.”
“In your studio.” Frustration makes his voice gravelly, and black swirls of color are creeping up his neck again. “The Showcase is tomorrow. The artem competition is two days later. Perhaps you can stay focused for that very brief period of time.”
I bite back my retort and concentrate on what matters. “I have a new idea for a Showcase piece, but it needs work.” And a small miracle. Or a visit from my fugue state. Either of those will do.
Marcus glances at the canvas in my hands, which is barely more than a sketch. He’s clearly unimpressed. “Is this your new idea?”
“Like I said, it needs work.”
We round a corner, and before long, we’re back at my studio. Cyrus is waiting outside, a scowl firmly on his face. I key us all in. Cyrus’s glare is demanding an explanation for my absence, but now’s not the time to tell him I was just visiting the secret hideout that doubles as his make-out spot with Basha.
I stride over and toss my canvas on top of the paint cabinet. It slides a little and jars loose the sheet draped over the picture of Kamali. I want to cover it up again, but I don’t want to draw attention to it and remind Marcus how far apart my fugue work is from my regular ability to sling paint.
I cross my arms and lean against the cabinet. “You had some matters to discuss?” I’m really not inclined to paint under Marcus’s supervision, so I hope that’s not what he has in mind.
“The regulations surrounding the hours leading up to the Showcase and competition are very specific and very strict,” he says.
“We’ve read the rules,” Cyrus says from a spot he’s taken on the other side of the room. “No leaving the building for twenty-four hours prior and no visitors, including your sponsor. Why is that exactly? I thought you were supposed to help us.”
“It’s an isolation time,” Marcus says, “but also a last-minute precaution against fraud and other dangers. Anything that might unduly influence your performance, for better or worse.”
“So they’re trying to keep us from cheating?” I restrain myself from glancing at Cyrus.
“They’re trying to keep you alive.” Marcus looks grim. He’s not kidding. “You’ll go through another decontamination just prior to the Showcase.”
“We just did that yesterday,” Cyrus objects.
“The decon is for any illegal enhancers that may have been introduced since arrival. But it’s really to your benefit. If there’s any kind of slow-acting poison or device that’s been smuggled into your body without your knowledge, the decon will detect and disarm it before the Showcase.”
Cyrus pushes off the wall. “You think someone’s trying to kill Eli.”
The possibility that there might be micro devices lurking inside my body like tiny bombs makes me queasy.
Marcus coolly takes in Cyrus’s clenched fists. “Kill. Maim. Even distract or disorient.” He swings his attention back to me. “Just prior to the Showcase is the most dangerous time for you, Eli. After you’ve made an appearance in front of Orion, you are relatively safe. Any unfortunate “accidents” would not only be suspect—they would result in the immediate disqualification of all other contestants in artem. That protects you between the Showcase and the competition itself. But before you reach the Showcase stage, you are still vulnerable. So between now and then, it’s imperative you do not interact with anyone.” His eyes bore into me.
This whole thing seems insane. “So anyone can kill me before the Showcase but not after? You realize how crazy that is, right?”
Marcus gives me a slight nod. “The Olympic committee attempts to preserve the life-giving nature of the games. What happens in your human lives prior to the stage is relatively unimportant. But once you enter the stadium, you are all potential ascenders. You will win the hearts of many with your performances, even if you do not take the gold. The committee would rather not have you tarnish the games by dying.”
My mouth drops open, but I’m truly speechless.
Cyrus says it for me. “So it’s okay for us to die, as long as no one messes with your games.” He clenches his fists. “You know… I really don’t like ascenders.”
Marcus arches an eyebrow. “All that’s required of you is to assist Mr. Brighton. If you’re incapable of that—”
I throw up my hands. “Hang on! I need Cyrus here. Whatever you’re thinking… don’t.”
Marcus looks us both over, me with my concil
iatory hands, Cyrus still red in the face. “Our interests are aligned, Eli,” he says carefully. “And I’m doing everything I can to help you ascend, inside and outside of Agon.”
“All right, then,” I say, giving Cyrus the order to stand down with my glare. He turns his back on Marcus and stalks to the far side of the room to lean against the wall, arms crossed. To Marcus, I say, “Just tell me what I need to know. Then I need to get back to work.”
He glances at Cyrus, but continues, “In the hour before your slot, you’ll be sequestered in your room. When your time comes, a security bot will escort you to the decon and staging area for the Showcase competition.”
“Fabulous. Can’t wait.”
He gives me a steely look that kills my sarcasm. “Cooperate fully with the decontamination. I won’t be able to accompany you this time.”
I frown. “I don’t get why you aren’t allowed in. I mean, you’re my sponsor. It’s not like you’re going to poison me on the way to the stage.”
Cyrus answers for him. “They’re trying to make sure Marcus doesn’t cheat.” There’s still anger lacing his voice.
Marcus cracks a small smile. “If there were a way to cheat on this, trust me, I would do it. The only person who wants you to ascend more than you is me. But the best bet is to focus on bringing all of your talent to the competition.” He turns to Cyrus. “Mr. Kowalski, please refrain from any illegal activities from now until the competition is complete.”
Cyrus snorts. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Marcus looks back to me. “In the past, some have found ways to cheat… but none of the successful ones have been humans.”
“Guess I’ll have to win this on talent, then.” I try to say it without sarcasm.
Marcus glances at the discarded canvas of Ascender Within on the cabinet, as well as the partially revealed Broken Artist. He may not completely realize that I can’t control the fugue state, but he has to know my chances are a lot longer than whatever odds the nets are placing.
But he doesn’t say anything about it—just pulls a small device from his pocket. It’s a miniature holo phone. Cyrus has a few implant phones in Riley’s shop, but no one has money for holo tech, even on the black market. “Use this to call me if you need anything. I’ll be staying nearby, and I can be here within minutes. Just make sure it’s not on your person for the Showcase or the competition.”
I take the slim silver square from him. It’s almost weightless, with a small indentation that makes it look like a button. I tap it, and it springs to life, floating a holo screen and an entry pad above it. I tap it again, and the image dissolves.
“Can I use this to call anyone?” I have no idea if holo phones can call regular phones, like my mom’s back home, but my phone was confiscated when they took my clothes during decon the first time.
“If you’re concerned about your mother,” Marcus says, “she’s well cared for. I’m receiving regular reports from her personal care assistant. Her fever has reduced, but she’s been given medication to keep her sedated and calm while her not quite legal treatment progresses.”
I swallow. Marcus knows about the gen tech circulating through my mom’s system… of course. The med bot would have picked that up right away. I throw a pinched look to Cyrus, but he just gives a small shake of his head. If I win, Marcus will get his gains in social status, and whatever else he wants that’s driving him to sponsor me… but if I lose, he loses, too. I wouldn’t put it past him to have me exiled for possessing black market gen tech—Cyrus and my mom, too. My hands curl into fists under my folded arms.
This thing just got a whole lot worse.
“I know it’s difficult, but you need to keep your focus,” Marcus says. “If it helps, the fact that your mother is gravely ill makes you somewhat sympathetic in the eyes of the viewers.”
“Right,” is all I can manage to get out without it sounding completely hostile.
“I’ll see you after the Showcase.” Marcus nods and strides to the door.
When he’s gone, Cyrus turns to me. “So, what do we do now?”
“Now I try to paint something worthy of saving my mother’s life.” I turn my back on him and key open the cabinet, pounding my anger and frustration into slamming the door open. My stomach rumbles from the lack of dinner. “And you get to find me something to eat.”
“On it.” A moment later, the door whispers closed behind him.
I brace myself against the cabinet, shut my eyes, and slowly bang my head against it. Then I shove aside all the emotions roiling inside me, take a deep breath, and haul out a fresh canvas.
Each step along the length of my apartment sends another jolt of agitation up my spine.
“How’d it go in the studio last night?” Cyrus asks from the bed by the door. He perches there, waiting for the security bot to come get us for the Showcase performance.
“About as well as you might expect.”
“That bad, huh?” He bites his lip.
I spent all night in my studio, going through dozens of canvases, trying to tap into that ascender within feeling—maybe it’s the fugue, or the soul Kamali is convinced I have, but either way, no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to access it. The last two attempts at rendering it into paint sit, discarded and pathetic, on my bed now.
My Olympic-issued sneakers are wearing down the carpet in our room.
“You hungry?” Cyrus asks. “I have an extra roll from last night. Straight from the cafeteria. I can take a bite for you, make sure it’s not poisoned.”
“No.” I don’t even look at the untouched breakfast and lunch platters on the table by the wall screen. Even if my stomach wasn’t occupied by writhing snakes of worry, there’s no way I’m chancing it.
“Did you make any progress in the loophole department?” I ask quietly.
“I’m working on it.”
I grimace, knowing that means he’s completely tapped out. If he had a glimmer of anything, he’d be boasting about how we had the gold in the bag. I glance at the screen clock. Half an hour to go. I keep pacing.
According to the schedule, Kamali’s already finished her performance. I’m sure she was brilliant, but I’m itching to find her and ask. Not just because I want to know, but because I have this twitchy suspicion that I can’t do this without her.
“Do you want to talk about what you’re going to paint?” Cyrus asks.
“No.” My nerves are like a canvas stretched too tight—my bones ache with the tension. I try to focus on Kamali and summoning that elusive feeling again, but the only sensation I muster is a dull thrumming throughout my body.
The schedule showed Thompson just ahead of me in the performance lineup. He’s probably on stage right now, enthralling the ascender crowd with his skills… I wrench my thoughts away from him and try to focus on Kamali. Her ability to create beauty from movement. Her smile, which seems to reach straight inside me and tug on that inner thing, that living thing that knows how to create—
My thoughts are cut off by a chime at the door.
Cyrus is up in less than a heartbeat and at the door when it automatically slides open. The security bot is there. It bristles with weaponry and steel.
“Guess you’re up,” Cyrus says to me.
I nod and stride up to the doorway. The security bot doesn’t step aside. It takes me a half-second to figure out that it needs to identify me.
I look it in the face. “Elijah Brighton.”
“Agonite Elijah Brighton, verified. Please extend your implant.”
I raise my left hand and hold it over the bot’s. A blue light scans the implant, then the bot moves aside to let us out. “Please follow me to the agonite staging area,” it says.
Cyrus and I fall in behind the bot as it strides quickly down the hall. I know the stage is appended to the side of Agon, near the Lounge—I was underneath it yesterday with Kamali, but this is the first time I will see it for real. The apartments and studios we pass are mostly diale
d down. In one, where the window is clear, a girl is curled up in the middle of her dance floor, sobbing. I can’t see her face, but it’s not Kamali. Still, the sight of her heaving shoulders lurches my stomach so hard, I’m afraid I’m going to lose what little is left from yesterday’s dinner.
Cyrus grips my shoulder. “Focus, Eli.”
I swallow down the nausea and nod. “I’m okay.”
“You’re not okay, you’re a freaking wreck.” But his hand squeezes my shoulder in a reassuring way. “Don’t worry, I’m going to tell Kamali you were all Nerves of Steel Man, kicking ass all the way in.”
My laugh is strangled, but it helps. The tension stringing my body ratchets down a little. “I don’t think you’ll fool her.”
“I think she’ll eat it up,” Cyrus says. “That girl is hot for you, man.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m just saying.”
I smile and want to say something more, but we’ve arrived. A bulky metal door at the end of the hallway looks more like the entrance to a vault than a stage. The security bot holds up its palm to the scanner to get us in. The door slides open to reveal a medical bay. Leopold, our original intake officer, stands next to the floating silver pod that is the decon unit.
“I’m going to have to take my clothes off again, aren’t I?” I ask him.
Cyrus’s expression has gone sour. I’m not sure if it’s the decon itself or having to strip down for it.
“Congratulations, Mr. Brighton,” Leopold says, gesturing me toward the pod. “You’ve made it to the competition.”
I narrow my eyes as I step forward and start peeling off my clothes. “Did you lose some kind of bet on that?”
He chuckles in an indulgent way, like I’m a child. “If I were allowed to place a wager, you can be certain that I wouldn’t bet against Marcus.”
Marcus. I hope he’s doing something in the ascender world to win me votes. Because I’m not at all sure I can bring it on my own.
“Thanks,” I say with a tight smile.
The Legacy Human (Singularity #1) (Singularity Series) Page 14
