The Legacy Human (Singularity #1) (Singularity Series) Read online

  Text copyright © 2015 Susan Kaye Quinn

  All rights reserved.

  March 2015 Edition

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  Susan Kaye Quinn

  Speculative Fiction Author

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  Edited by Bryon Quertermous

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  Cover Design by Dale Robert Pease

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  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

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  The spiritual successor to the bestselling Mindjack Trilogy...

  The Legacy Human

  (Singularity 1)

  young adult science fiction

  Summary

  What would you give to live forever?

  Seventeen-year-old Elijah Brighton wants to become an ascender — a post-Singularity human/machine hybrid — after all, they’re smarter, more enlightened, more compassionate, and above all, achingly beautiful. But Eli is a legacy human, preserved and cherished for his unaltered genetic code, just like the rainforest he paints. When a fugue state possesses him and creates great art, Eli miraculously lands a sponsor for the creative Olympics. If he could just master the fugue, he could take the gold and win the right to ascend, bringing everything he’s yearned for within reach… including his beautiful ascender patron. But once Eli arrives at the Games, he finds the ascenders are playing games of their own. Everything he knows about the ascenders and the legacies they keep starts to unravel… until he’s running for his life and wondering who he truly is.

  When immortality is the prize, winning the Game is all that matters.

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  While you're waiting for more Singularity...

  a short story about artificial intelligence and love

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  What if the three laws of robotics were replaced by a single emotion: unconditional love. Restorative Human Medical Care Unit 7435, sentience level fifty, wants to heal the human master it loves, but Unit 7435 finds there is a price to be paid for love… and for failing in its primary mission. Restore is the first in a collection of short SF novellas (Stories of Singularity) that will accompany Susan Kaye Quinn's Singularity novel series.

  to Liz

  for loving Eli first

  I want to ascend so badly, I can taste it.

  It’s bitter and metallic, like the acrylic paint spread before me. It’s beautiful and beckoning and untouchable, like the shimmering rose skin of my patron, Lenora, who hovers over my work, tasting it in her own way. Her fingertips barely graze the paint, sensing its color and texture and scent in a way that is utterly inhuman.

  Because she’s not human. Not anymore. She’s ascended—vastly more intelligent, compassionate, and enlightened than any human could be without the procedure. I’m just one of those remnants of humanity the ascenders left behind long ago.

  Lenora leans in toward the painting in that sudden kind of motion ascenders sometimes have. Her cascade of red curls brushes my cheek… and raises goose bumps on my arms.

  I hold absolutely still.

  This is the closest she’ll come to touching me. Anything more would be… wrong. Ascenders and legacy humans don’t do that sort of thing, at least not legally. I tell myself the instant full-body alert is just because I’m a seventeen-year-old guy who’s definitely straight—anything vaguely female would get this response—but it doesn’t help that Lenora’s body is pure fantasy. Sculpted cheeks. Curves that irresistibly draw my gaze. Lips that beg for me to draw each perfectly rounded part. The red curls have to be synthetic—ascenders don’t have hair—but their softness still heats my cheek. There’s plenty to desire in the bodyform she’s wearing now, but lust is a pale reflection of the thick, complicated feelings I have for her.

  Feelings no legacy should have. And no decent ascender would return.

  It’s wrong to want her. Or really, just delusional. But my fingers ache with the need to touch her, just once. She’s close enough that I easily could.

  If only ascendance were equally within reach.

  Once again, I taste the bitter nearness and yet absolute unreachability… of her. Of ascending. Of everything that means anything at all.

  Lenora leans back, her hair no longer touching me: it breaks the spell. “It’s lovely, Elijah.” She always uses my full name, just like my mother. Which is disturbing enough, but it also reminds me that Lenora was born long before any human now alive. “I like it. But you can do better.”

  I fight hard to keep my disappointment from showing. Which is ridiculous because I need her to hate the painting—or at least dislike it enough that she’ll let me keep it. I won’t tell her I’m selling it, but black market medicines aren’t cheap, and those are the only kind my mother can get now. Yet I can’t help wanting Lenora to love my work anyway.

  I search the delicate palette of her skin for some hint of what she truly feels. Her cheeks are currently the color of a white rose blushing pink, and tiny flashes of silver dart just below the surface, making them glisten. That means something, but learning to read Lenora’s emotional state is the kind of color study I could spend an eternity trying to master. I think the rose means she’s relaxed yet excited, but the silver flashes… I just don’t know.

  “I was only messing around with some color,” I lie, swinging my gaze to the carefully blended shades of green in front of us. I went through a dozen canvases before I could capture the spectrum of the rainforest in just the right balance—good enough to be worth something on ArtNet, but not so good that she would want to keep it. But she’s right, of course. I can do better. A lot better. Fantastically, inspiringly better… only I can’t control when that creative madness strikes. It’s more like possession. I don’t remember it afterward, I just find the result smeared in front of me. Madness rendered in paint.

  Most people would call that kind of black-out a mental problem, not a gift. But to Lenora, it’s the entire reason she became my patron two years ago.

  “I’ll do better next time,” I say, knowing I can’t guarantee any such thing.

  She steps back to examine my work from a distance. Her costume is more ridiculous than normal: full body armor, balloon pants, and a gleaming silver helmet on top of her curly red wig. My patron likes to dress up, but I truly wish she wouldn’t. Ascenders playing human isn’t exactly a compliment. And everything about it is exaggerated, like she thinks it’s hilarious. An outrageous purple feather dances on top of her helmet, jerking and twitching in the breeze, as if it agrees with me. The feather is a wild thing held captive, an adornment to be tossed aside when she’s ready for the next one.

  I squirm on my stool. That thought’s dangerously close to home, given I need my patron—her support, her approval, her understanding of my art—far more than she needs me.

  I don’t say any of this, just give her outfit a bemused look. “Sixteenth century conquistador?” I guess. “Planning to make some conquests today?”

  A hint of a smile tugs at her lips, but she’s still examining my work. “No, I simply enjoy the feather.”

  More squirming. “It clashes with the hair. Red and purple. The colors of passion and divinity.”

  “Or blood and royalty.” She’s toying with me.
r />   Then, lightning quick, she strikes a pose, as if she has an invisible sword held before her. She lunges toward me. I throw up my hands in mock terror then fling them wide, allowing her to pierce my heart with her imaginary blade. The motion unbalances me, and I tip off the stool, falling to the floor. From there, five different kinds of brightness compete to blind me: the metallic shine of the dustless floor, the natural light beaming through the glass ceiling, and the multitude of glints from silvered art cabinets, brushes, and easels. Lenora’s sun-drenched studio is perched on a cliff at the edge of Seattle, and from here, even the decaying legacy city towers seem to sparkle.

  I wince more at the gracelessness of my fall than the glare.

  She laughs.

  I stare, unabashedly smiling at the sound. I haven’t heard her laugh in this bodyform yet. It’s taller than the last one, with more ample curves and more delicate limbs, both of which I greatly appreciate, but the laugh… it’s almost musical.

  I blush when I realize her laugh is directed at me. “Glad I could amuse you today.” I get up, set the stool on its feet, then snatch my painting off the easel and turn to leave.

  “Elijah,” she calls, the music in her voice softer now.

  I hate that I automatically check my determined stride. But leaving in a huff is an idiot move anyway. Orion’s normal chit-allowance—the one every legacy gets for playing by the rules and living off the ascender’s largess—barely covers enough food to keep you moving. Forget art supplies, not to mention black market meds. And I can’t sell my works if I don’t have paint.

  I slowly turn back to Lenora. Her perfect face is marred by concern, as if hurting my feelings actually pains her. And I believe it’s completely genuine: ascenders are far more empathetic and understanding than the human animals they’ve left behind. It’s not that they’re all the same, as if linking up to Orion turns them into hive-minded household bots. Ascenders are definitely still individuals—they’re just better individuals than any human in all of history has managed to be. At least, that’s how it is with Lenora: she’s the only ascender I’ve met in person. But everything I’ve ever seen on the legacy net shows it to be true: ascenders care far more about everything from eliminating war to fixing all the environmental damage done while humans were in charge. And to top it off, they caretake the few legacy humans like me who are still around.

  The ascenders do a much better job of running the planet than humanity ever did.

  “I’m so sorry, Elijah,” Lenora says, regret making her voice heavy. “That wasn’t kind. Let me take another look at your work, treasured one.”

  I can tell by the way her skin pinks up in a wave that she means well—but the endearment rubs me the wrong way. It reminds me why I’m allowed to exist. I’m the treasured relic of a humanity that used to fill the planet as common as dirt. Then the Singularity came along, and the vast majority of people ascended, or died trying. The eighty percent who survived managed to accelerate the evolution of the human race by changing irrevocably into something else. Something better.

  Only there were some who refused the gift of a nanotech-enhanced brain: artists, philosophers, religious men and women of all stripes. Creative types who feared the loss of that creativity, not realizing ascenders were better even at that. The dissenters opted out. But they didn’t just doom themselves to a life of inferiority—they doomed every generation to come after. Because you can’t have an endless supply of humans, breeding like rats, continuing to ascend, and growing the immortal population forever. So it wasn’t long after the Singularity that the dissenters lost their right to choose.

  I’ve cursed my great-grandfather for that more than once.

  Now I’m his legacy: preserved for the pure, unadulterated genetic code in my cells. The ascenders kept humanity from going extinct, just like the revived rainforests I render in paint and pixels. They care for us, feed us, and treasure us. We are their origins. The only problem with being part of a living genetic museum is that you’re not allowed to change.

  But it keeps me alive. Which, generally speaking, is better than the alternative.

  I take a deep breath, swallow my pride, and hold up the painting for Lenora’s inspection. She’s my patron; I’m not supposed to sell my works without her permission. ArtNet’s one of the few legacy marketplaces ascenders visit, but there’s no reason for an ascender like Lenora to slum there. The real art markets are on Orion… which is inaccessible without a patron. She says I’m not ready for that, but maybe she wouldn’t mind if I sold a few things on ArtNet in the meantime.

  I take the risk. “I know it’s not great, but what do you think? Could it fetch a few chits on ArtNet? Some other ascender might not have as discerning taste as you.” I hope that doesn’t sound too bitter.

  “Don’t be absurd, Elijah.” She takes the painting from me before I realize what she’s doing.

  I try to decide if I should put up a fight.

  She regards it again. “I love all your work.” She looks at me. “Each is a small part of you, and I cherish them all, just like you, treasured one.”

  The pet name again. I bite back the words that want to leap out: Don’t treat me like a child. Or worse, a… I don’t even want to think the word.

  I smile instead.

  She gets that momentary flickered look, where she flutters her eyelids, and I know she’s consulting Orion. Of course, she’s always in contact with the collective knowledge net—I only notice the flicker because I’ve studied her a lot. Study probably isn’t the right word: I can fill sketchbooks with drawings of her bodyforms from memory. The flutter means she’s checking in with the collective in a conscious way, opening herself up to them and them to her. She’s described it before as a communion, but not in the religious sense: believing in a higher power is one of the endearing flaws of legacy humans. Ascenders tolerate it, with airy disapproval, like all our flaws. Most of the time.

  The moment is past. “Consensus is that a work like this, original art from a treasured one, especially the representational irony of preservation rendered by a legacy artist, would command about a hundred chits on Orion.” Her expression softens, as her iridescent purple eyes focus on me. She’s altered them to a shade darker than her feather. “Would that be a fair price, Elijah?”

  I blink, confused. That’s way more than it would fetch on ArtNet. Like ten times more. “So, you’re all right with me selling it?”

  “I will buy it from you.”

  “Um…” I’ve missed something, but I’m not sure what. “You already own it.”

  “You would not be looking to sell it, if you didn’t need the money.” Her voice is soft with compassion. “And I can’t bear to part with any of your works. It seems a fair exchange. Do you agree?”

  Embarrassment flames my face, but I can’t afford to say no. “Yes.”

  She rewards me with a dazzling smile that sweeps away my embarrassment. “Good! I’ve already transferred the untraceable chits to your account.”

  Untraceable. She’s already figured out the money’s going toward something illegal. And yet she’s breaking the law, no questions asked, all because it’s what I need and she wants to keep my art. She’s always been generous, always given me exactly what I need, effortlessly and with grace, but this… I don’t have words for this thing she’s doing for me. I don’t believe in angels, but if I did, Lenora would have to qualify.

  I am so hopelessly lost when it comes to her.

  I concentrate on handing the painting to her, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to touch her. Hug her. Make some excuse to get closer. It shames me to want something from her that no decent ascender would give. A pet can kiss its master, but the master won’t kiss back. Not the way I want her to. Lenora is buying my art because she’s kind and decent… and all my base human brain can think of is putting my hands on her.

  And how soft her ascender lips would feel.

  “Thank you.” My words are hushed. There’s shame in my eyes, so I drop m
y gaze to the floor.

  She takes the painting then whisper-walks with ascender speed past me. She’s gone before I can look up. When I turn, my painting sits on the easel. A half second later, a soft sound, one I can actually hear, announces there’s someone at the front door of her house.

  That’s probably my cue to leave. Maybe I can find my dignity before I go.

  I take my time strolling from the studio to the gathering room. Maybe I can steal a few more minutes of Lenora’s time when she’s done at the door—I’m due for another lesson anyway. The curved walls of the gathering room swoop up to an arched ceiling, which always confuses my human eyes. I’m sure it’s pleasing to ascenders—every part of Lenora’s house is a work of art. There’s no bathroom or kitchen, which keeps my visits short, but the entire building is an inspired mating of form and function. Like the energy port in the gathering room that appears to be an electric flower. Or the chrome chair in the net room that’s the shape of a Mobius strip but actually serves as a holographic portal. I saw Lenora using it once—I had arrived early for our lesson, and she was still bathed in its blue glow.

  There’s a bedroom in the back somewhere. According to the legacy net, ascenders use them for maintenance, down time, and vacations. I’ve never seen it. Probably never will.

  I cruise slowly through the gathering room, keeping my distance from the household bot gliding along the two-story-tall window. It’s not humanoid, just one of the non-sentient kinds. It cycles the window through a cleaning mode, flinging off any offending dust particles that dare to alight. The whir of the bot’s air filters masks my footfalls, but it still detects me as I pass. I don’t move fast enough, so it queries me.