She drops her gaze to her hands, which are holding each other tight. “I thought you were going to win before that.” She looks up. “But yes. Now Delphina agrees. Your odds are better.”
My chest feels tight. If Cyrus had anything to do with that… I’m going to have words with him as soon as I get back to my room. And Marcus as well, although I don’t know what I’ll do if it was him. But I don’t miss that Kamali believed in me before my prime competition was murdered by someone I hope I don’t know.
“What does that have to do with your secret?” I ask softly. “The one you wanted to tell me.”
She straightens and takes a breath. “I think I’m going to win as well.”
I nod, smiling a little. “So do I.”
“And when I climb up onto the platform at the gold medal ceremony, I’m going to do something unexpected.”
I draw back. “What are you going to do?” Security is pretty tight at the Olympics. It’s not like legacies are allowed to attend. They view it on the net like the rest of the world, except for the few privileged ascenders who travel to be here. Only the winners are allowed into the medals ceremony, and they’re the ones who’ve won the once-in-a-lifetime chance to ascend—there’s no reason for there to be any trouble.
Kamali looks into my eyes. “I’m going to say no.” It comes out in one long breath, then she darts a look around, like she thinks somehow someone has overheard, even in the privacy of her studio.
I blink. “You mean, you’re going to say no to the medal?” She can’t be saying what I think she’s saying. It doesn’t make any sense.
She stands a little straighter. “I’m going to play by their rules. I’m going to be the one person from drama this year they think is worthy of ascending. Of being one of them. And then I’m going to take that medal and shove it back in the face of the ascender presenting it to me. I’m going to turn to the thousands in the stadium and the billions watching in Orion… and I’m going to say no.”
Those words sound like they came from Delphina, and it all coalesces in my head at once. “You’re a dissenter,” I say, hushed, like it’s blasphemy to speak that word aloud inside of Agon. Which it is. And it’s the most ridiculously implausible thing I can imagine. We’re inside her studio, the one that’s set up exclusively for her to train for her one shot at ascending. But dissenters hate everything ascender. They’re exiled, but it’s usually by choice. It’s often like Marcus said: they want to be caught. They want to live outside the legacy cities. For a dissenter to be a competitor, an agonite striving to become one of the few allowed to ascend… it just doesn’t make any sense.
“I’m part of the resistance,” she says quietly.
“What resistance?” I feel like a fool for even saying those words. It occurs to me that I never thought of there being any organization to the dissenters. They were just… the exiles. The unlucky ones. The criminals and black marketers who got caught and now have to scrape together a way to survive outside the legacy cities. Or the theocrats and nomads who were never legacy to begin with.
“Delphina says we’re not slaves to the ascenders. We’re slaves to our own idea that somehow they’re better than we are. But they’re not, Eli. We…” She gestures between the two of us with her long-fingered hand. “We are the only thing left of humanity that’s worth saving.”
My mouth drops open, and I’m shaking my head now, drawing back from her. “The ascenders can be jerks, I’ll grant you that. But you have to admit they’re better than us… I mean, they are better. At just about everything.”
“Not the one thing that matters.”
I narrow my eyes. She’s a believer. “You’re talking about your soul.” I don’t know about souls or the afterlife or any of that religious stuff… but I know Kamali’s right about one thing. This isn’t just messing around with gen tech. This is something much more dangerous.
“I’m talking about your soul.” Her dark brown eyes sparkle. “I believe you’re far too important to lose to the ascenders, Eli.”
My chest squeezes as her words echo my mom’s, the last words she spoke to me before I left her lying feverish in a bath filled with icy water: I can’t lose you to them.
“Win this thing, Eli,” Kamali says, her voice lifting. “Then join us. Stand up there with Delphina and me on the platform and tell them all no.”
“I can’t do that.” I shake my head, take a step back, and bump into the door. “I… I have to go.” I give the door a desperate look, like I might claw my way out if she doesn’t unlock it.
She reaches past me to wave her implant. It slides open, and I spill out into the hallway. It feels like I should say something more, but I don’t know what it would be. I turn to jog down the hallway, then stop and turn back.
She’s still watching me from the doorway.
“I won’t tell anyone.” I don’t know what she’s thinking with this madness of saying no to ascending, but I don’t want her hurt in any way. My mind can’t even wrap around what the ascenders would do if they knew. There’s no precedent for it. Exile might not be enough.
She doesn’t say anything, just frowns as I give in to my need to flee. I recognize enough of the layout to find my way back to my apartment. Which has to be where Cyrus went after the performance.
And I have words yet to have with him.
My apartment door slides open.
Cyrus faces the wall screen, waving his hands to operate it. I don’t know what data he’s diving into, but he’s so focused he doesn’t notice me until I’m halfway across the room.
“You’re not going to believe the numbers, Eli—”
I shove him, hard. He doesn’t see it coming, which is the only reason I have any impact at all on my best friend’s massive body. Even so, it only knocks him off balance.
“What the—” He braces himself against the wall.
I’m in his face. “Did you do it? Did you?”
He doesn’t look shocked. “Do what? Specifically.”
I shove him again, both hands against his chest. He bumps the wall behind him and pushes away my hands.
“Did you specifically kill Thompson?” I demand. “Tell me the truth, Cyrus.”
His face relaxes for a fraction of a second, then he narrows his eyes. “No, I didn’t kill him. But thanks for thinking I’m a stone cold killer. I’ve been trying to cultivate my bad boy reputation.”
I relax and take a half-step back. “It looks bad, Cy. Really bad.”
“We didn’t do anything.”
“What if Marcus did?”
Cyrus shakes his head and pushes past me to resume his station at the screen. “Shiny pants is on his own.”
“I’m calling him,” I say.
Cyrus doesn’t respond.
I hunt around for the phone Marcus gave me; it’s buried in the blankets of my bed. I tap it, and the holo screen pops up. Before I can figure out how to navigate it, the phone is already placing a call. Marcus’s face appears, a tiny floating hologram in my palm.
“Eli, how are you holding up?”
“How am I holding up?” I echo, incredulously. I wave my hand around, but that just makes his head dance and bob and probably means he can’t see me. I hold the phone still and glare at his shimmering face. “The Showcase piece was a disaster, but it’s okay because someone killed my main competition.”
Marcus grimaces. “The Showcase piece isn’t as bad as you think—”
“Marcus!” I cut him off, then suck in a breath. “Did you do it?”
He doesn’t act outraged or offended at my accusation, but the grimace gets a little tighter. “No.”
Even if he wanted to admit it, he might not do it over the phone. But the angry look on his face says he knows something.
“But you know who did,” I say. Maybe someone else, someone who actually has a chance of winning, thought taking Thompson out would help them.
“I have a few guesses,” he says, “but no evidence. As I’m sure there won’t be,
even after the formal investigation is complete.”
I shake my head. “I’m the one who benefits the most from Thompson’s death. That means the most likely suspects are you, me, and my friend Cyrus, who is probably betting against me right now.” I glance at the screen.
“I’m not a gambler!” Cyrus calls over his shoulder. If I wasn’t freaked out about this, it would almost make me laugh.
“I’m not the only ascender who wants you to win, Eli. And I’m telling you the truth—I had nothing to do with Mr. Thompson’s unfortunate death. I’m not exactly pleased that it happened. While it may technically enhance your odds, it makes you less sympathetic, and that was one of your strongest features going in.”
I blow my anger out in a sigh. “Maybe I earned some sympathy votes with that Showcase piece.”
“I think you did much more than that,” Marcus says. “But I want you to put all that aside and move forward. You’ve got less than forty-eight hours until the actual competition, and I want you to focus everything on that. I’ll be over as soon as they open up Agon again.”
“Okay.” But I can’t imagine any amount of practice over the next two days will be enough to elevate my skills to gold-medal-winning levels. I tap off the phone. On the wall screen, Cyrus has the odds on the agonites scrolling by.
“How bad is it?” I ask.
Cyrus swipes away one list and brings up another. “Your odds just shot through the roof.”
“What? Even with Thompson gone, my Showcase piece was… did you see it?”
“Yeah.” Cyrus’s eyes are glued to the screen. “Pretty freaky if you ask me. Don’t really want to think about what that one means.”
He’s not an artist. He probably can’t tell how much it’s just… not good enough. And Cyrus didn’t see the ascenders’ reaction in the stadium like I did. “I wasn’t in the fugue state, Cy.”
“Yeah, I got that.” He glances at me. “Just because I’m not a creative like you doesn’t mean I can’t tell the difference.”
“I didn’t mean—”
He cuts me off with a wave then turns back to the screen. “Fugue state or no, you’ve managed to cause a giant rift on the darknet boards. Someone has access to Orion and is leaking information out. Seems the ascenders were disturbed by what you did. There’s all kinds of commentary about what it means, why it’s different from your other work, what that portends for your final piece.” He looks at me. “They’re talking about you, Eli. And that is in no way a bad thing.”
I frown. “They’re talking because Thompson is dead.”
A cold flush runs through me as I think about Thompson and my painting: a boy in agony suspended in the air, blown apart, while a shadowy figure looks on. The cold flush sinks to my stomach and forms an icy pool. It’s almost as if I knew. No wonder the ascenders were horrified. Thompson was a jerk, probably had been all his life, but Kamali is right: the games do that to legacies. They set up a system where a boy can be born whose sole purpose in life is to win ascendance. How does that not to turn you into a jerk?
And then, in the end, the games kill you anyway.
The iciness in my stomach is crawling up the back of my throat. I swallow it down.
Cyrus speaks up from his spot at the screen. “It doesn’t matter why they’re talking about you, Eli. What matters is they will be watching you in the competition. You’ve got a real shot at this thing.”
I take a breath and try to shake off the chill of Thompson’s death. “I only have a shot if I’m in the fugue state. They’re not going to ascend me based on another piece like that. No matter how much they’re disturbed by it.”
“Then we better make sure you’re in the fugue state for the competition.” He says this like it’s a switch we can just flip on, no problem. The pressure crowds down on me, like a physical thing compacting my head. I rub my temples, trying to combat it with counter-pressure from the outside, but it just makes me aware of my bunched-up shoulders. I drop my hands and roll my head, trying to work it out, but the tension just radiates down my back.
“I don’t suppose there’s a way to get some headache meds around here?” I ask Cyrus.
He frowns. “Are we talking black market drugs or just an aspirin?”
I give a half-smile. “Aspirin will do. Then I’ll get back to work.”
“You got it.” He heads toward the door, dropping a hand on my shoulder briefly as he goes. I just hope he’s not tempted to hack whatever med bot he finds.
When the door slides shut, I stumble to the bathroom. It takes three tries with my shaking hands to work the holo controls and order up a stream of cold water that spills in an arching waterfall from the wall. I cup my hands and splash it on my face. There’s nothing to dry with, and I’m too tired to fight the bot to figure it out. I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours, and the weight of that pulls on my eyelids. The mirror reflects back a haggard face, dripping wet, eyes shot with red. As if I need another reminder of the weakness of my mortal flesh.
My hands clutch the sides of the sink, holding me up.
Thompson’s dead. My greatest artwork wasn’t good enough, but somehow I’m still in the running. And my muse, Kamali, is working for the resistance, whatever that is, and wants to save my soul from the ascenders.
All of it makes every muscle in my body tense up.
I used to think the ascenders were better than legacies at everything: smarter, more compassionate, more beautiful. And I believed—believed—what they said about being a superior form of humanity. Even when they wouldn’t cure my mom, I still thought there was some explanation, obscure to me because I was merely human, that somehow, ultimately, it was for the greater good.
But they’re no different than the worst dregs of Seattle.
Tightness pulls across my chest, making it hard to breathe. All I’ve ever wanted was to be one of them. To be worthy of someone like Lenora.
I stare hard at my reflection then wipe the water from my face.
The ascenders make us perform like monkeys on a stage, then they tear apart our performances and place their bets. Only the winner isn’t who’s worthy, it’s who survives. The rest of us go back to sputtering along in our short human lives, while the ascenders play their immortal games. Again and again. Forever.
I don’t care if they have ulterior motives, even murderous ones. I can’t help that Thompson’s dead. And I can’t worry about whether Kamali’s right, and I’m sacrificing my soul to gain an immortal life that’s no better than this one. Because my mom’s life is riding on this.
There’s only one thing I can think about now.
Winning the games.
I must have fallen asleep while Cyrus was out hunting meds.
I remember collapsing into the cool embrace of the shimmering, body-adjusting sheets, staring at the ceiling, and counting the seconds as time leaked away. I don’t remember closing my eyes, but they struggle to open with Cyrus’s not-so-gentle shove to my shoulder. He yanks the sheet away, and the cool waft of air means I must have been under it for a while.
I open my mouth to speak, but a yawn overtakes me.
“You can sleep later,” Cyrus says, “when we’re done with this thing.”
I force my mouth closed, though that just moves the yawn up to water my eyes. I rub them clear. “How long was I out?”
“Couple hours. They’ve lifted the lockdown. Marcus will be here soon.”
I sit up, stretching the sleep out of my body.
“You still want those meds? I found a med bot that was just asking to be reprogrammed.”
I squint at him. “Please tell me you didn’t.”
“I was tempted.” He’s leaning against the headboard of his bed, near the foot of mine. “But, turns out, I just had to ask.” He holds out his hand; there’s a tiny blue med tab in the middle of his palm.
I wave it off. “I’m good. Besides, I want my head clear. We have to figure out this fugue thing. I need to be able to control it.”
C
yrus nods and drags a chair over opposite me. “I know.” He’s looking at me seriously now, more serious than I’ve ever seen him before. “Trust me when I say I’m going to do everything in my power to help you win this, Eli.”
“I know, Cy, I know.” I stare at my hands, eyes still bleary. “I just wish I had some clue how to make it happen.”
“Tell me how it feels when you’re in it.”
“It doesn’t feel like anything when I’m in it. It’s like I go somewhere else. I’m in a dream or a memory or something—some other place. It’s like there’s another me inside that takes over and paints while I daydream about hanging out with great artists.”
“So you’re with other artists during the fugue?” Cyrus takes this seriously, like it’s a piece of the puzzle.
“Sometimes it’s my mom, sometimes I blank out altogether and don’t remember anything. This last time, it was some guy I’m sure I know, some artist from the past, but I can’t quite put my finger on who. Not that it matters.”
“It could matter,” Cyrus says, face severe. “I think you should spend more time with Kamali.”
I pull back. “What?”
“She’s your muse, right? She helps you focus. I don’t get how this fugue thing works, but there has to be some reasoning behind it. It can’t be entirely random. Maybe she can help you draw it out.”
I rub my face with both hands. “I’m not sure hanging around her is such a good idea.” I debate whether my promise not to tell anyone about Kamali’s secret dissenter plans includes Cyrus. I decide, with him kissing Basha, that Kamali has to know that’s not likely. “There’s something you should know about her.”
“What? That she’s part of the resistance?”
I stare at him, dumbfounded. Then anger rises up my neck, a flush of heat that makes the short hairs prickle out. “Exactly when were you going to share that tidbit with me?”
The Legacy Human (Singularity #1) (Singularity Series) Page 16
