LEGACY RISING (3 page)

              Legacy whirled and frantically swept the crowd with her eyes, but saw no sign of the duke or his family, nor a seated and attentive audience. She wasn’t quite sure
how
to reach the concert hall. She’d never been to Taliko Center before.

Returning to the safety of the periphery, Legacy leapt onto a tufted chair and gave the room another scan, revealing an opened pair of double doors so far away that she struggled to discern what lay beyond. Still, she shouldered through the crowd, having located the trajectory of her path, and almost collapsed through the hedge-like horizon of bodies that the party-goers made, into the long, narrow sanctuary of the concert hall, and the duke’s annual public gesture, the founder’s day speech. Of course, the speech had already ended—in truth, it’d ended while she’d still been in that screening line—but now Duke Taliko stood at the podium, murmuring into the microphone about something else. It was either employment opportunity or worker rights, two grim prospects in the city of Icarus. But his answer was punctuated by a slight, sagging smile cut across his short, blond beard, a slow blink of his eyes, and the crowd politely acquiescing to applaud.

Near the doors, the broadcast crew of
CIN-3
was stationed with cameras. Liam stood with his beefy shoulder bearing a blinking green lens the size of a plate, and standing in front of him with her arms tightly crossed was Dyna Logan, media personality, unmoving and unspeaking in an elaborately feathered hat.

I should’ve figured,
Legacy thought. Liam was always first and foremost an employee.
Wish he didn’t have to be here to hear this, but oh well.

              She scanned for Dax, too; this was the kind of thing he might care about, but she couldn’t see him. Of course, the room was full of people, most of them seated, but it didn’t look like he was here. If anyone could recognize Dax from a glimpse of his shoulder or the back of his head, it was her.

Trying her best to be subtle, Legacy crept toward an open seat in the back and took it.

              “Number thirty-six,” the hawk-nosed gent from the screening tent called. Now he was stationed behind some other official table, off to the left of the duke’s podium.

             
Number thirty-six? They must’ve started early.
Legacy’s brow knit with disapproval at the deception.
Either that, or lots of people mysteriously left after standing in line for hours just for the chance to do this.

              Number Thirty-Six was a man, middle-aged, somewhere in the nebula of Mr. and Mrs. Legacy’s generation. He was also,
unlike
Mr. and Mrs. Legacy, impeccably dressed in a stream-lined, silken tuxedo, pearlescent gray slacks, new spats, and top hat. He stood, and only then did he pull the top hat from off his dark, thinning hair. Legacy couldn’t see his face, but she was willing to bet that he wore a slight, sagging smile to perfectly mirror the duke’s. That was how it went, she’d heard. They were all alike up at the top.

But when the man spoke, his nervous tone and lack of etiquette seemed to belie the generalization. “Excuse me, Mr. Duke— I mean, Duke Taliko of Icarus, sir,” the man quickly amended, bowing slightly as his gloves nervously inched along the brim of his top hat.

              The duke and his hawk-nosed assistant made eye contact, and something passed between them: a series of imperceptible nods, validating that this was, in fact, Number Thirty-Six, and his question had been pre-approved, its answer pre-written and likely folded neatly on the podium.

              “I have a question regarding the availability and origin of a certain fine product, and I’m sorry if this seems . . . minor, but I’ve asked everyone of knowledge I feel may help, and I am afraid no one has the answer.”

              Duke Taliko offered his withered, obliging smile. “Yes, go on.”

              “Well, I came across an item of great worth and have found myself a touch fascinated,” Number Thirty-Six confessed. He giggled nervously, then cut his own laugh short. “I’ve been led to believe that it is one of a kind; however, the proprietor of an antiques outlet in Celestine seemed to recognize that to which I was referring. He said he had seen it before, too, and in truth, the thing is—the thing—”

              The hawk-nosed assistant was making a gesture to hurry it along. Number Thirty-Six cleared his throat.

              “The item is composed of a most delicate material which yet seemed durable, and with which I have been able to patch holes and clean wounds,” he went on quickly. “I apologize again. My question to you, Duke Taliko, in short, is this: are you aware of a fabric known as
spider’s silk,
and if so, is it possible that we may incorporate it into our textiles production?”

              “Ah,” the duke replied thoughtfully. “The silk. Yes, I am aware of that fabric, but, in truth, it cannot be produced in our current situation. Though that in and of itself is a small shame, the city will continue to labor toward greatness. Our textiles industry is the strongest seen yet in the history of Icarus.”

              “But—the usefulness of it,” Number Thirty-Six objected. “And the feel. It’s so . . . soft, yet hard, I . . . I must know where it comes from. What is a sp—”

              “Yes,” the duke answered, though there had been no question. Only a demand which seemed to go ignored. “Thank you for your interest. A citizen with active curiosity in our capabilities is, then, a civil servant as well.”

              The smattering of applause which followed his comment signaled that the conversation had come to a close.

              Legacy frowned. He hadn’t even touched the question; he hadn’t helped anything! He’d just made some vague reassurances meant to reinforce patriotism! And that was going to happen to her, too! As she considered this, her blood frothed, her heart tumbling end over end in her chest.
No! It’s not going to happen to me, too!

              “Number Thirty-Seven,” the hawk-nosed assistant called.

              Legacy shot to her feet, the crowd of onlookers falling away, becoming inconsequential pinpricks. She may have been nervous in some other scenario, but with this question pounding in her head, the only people here were herself and the duke, separated, but not by worth. Only by space, and the invisible infrastructure of their social paradigm. Maybe Hawk Nose and Taliko got to share their little nod of approval, but she didn’t notice. She had tunnel vision, hazy with fury, and maybe, maybe Dax Ghrenadel was the one making her heart tumble end over end.

              “Duke Taliko,” she addressed sternly. “I want to know the rationale behind the enduring support this duchy provides the Compatible Companion Selection Services lab.”

              “Thank you for such a great question,” the duke responded. But his tone was blithe by comparison with her own. “The CCSS was established in 2261 in order to ensure the viability of the city’s pop—”

              “But it’s been two generations since then,” Legacy seethed. “The people of this city are strong! They must be, in order to live in such conditions!”

              A murmur rippled through the crowd.

              “Can more cities not be built? If a challenge surprises nature, will it not deliver you strength in its diversity? Because no one just lays down! We all want to live!”

              Sudden, isolated bursts of clapping startled Legacy out of her fever, and the tunnel vision widened to encompass the audience she had forgotten. They were all staring at her in mixtures of criticism and shock and hope.

              “Your dreamy philosophy, Miss Legacy, is not suited to a world of restricted resources such as this,” Duke Taliko replied. The languid quality to his manner had evaporated, and now the same fire of her eyes leapt in his own. “On the Old Earth, they espoused similar tenets of
choice
and
chance
,” he hissed.

              “Because we are not traits to be tallied by your difference engines!” Legacy spat.

“Yeah!” someone behind her belted.

“I am not my bone density! I am not my allergies!”

“Nor I!” cried another citizen, hurling a chunk of bread at the podium.

“I am not my percentage of risk!” she continued, now blind to the audience again, out of her mind with zeal. “And neither is the ineligible man I love!”

Fingers closed around Legacy’s arm, which she shook without looking.

“Hey!” she heard Dax’s voice shout from behind her. “Get your hands off her!”

Legacy struggled against the barrier of security which had seemed to spring from nowhere. Perfect. Stern men in black turtlenecks, their arms strapped in blue ribbon bearing the Taliko insignia, clamped down from all sides, one in the row behind her, two on her other side, and another pulling chairs out of the way to clear their path, so that her removal would be quick and painless. Her arms were twisted behind her back and her hands bound.

“Let her go!” Legacy heard Dax’s voice again, closer now, approaching. “It was just a question!”

Then came the smack of bare knuckles on bare jaws, once, twice, a groan, and a sharp cry. Two of the guards on her were gone now, redirected.

“Thank you again for your time and your clear passion,” the duke called over the din, as if he were now just trying to ignore the mess around him. Several people had sprung up in their chairs and were shouting, but she couldn’t make out what they said. “It’s citizens like you, Miss Legacy, that make Icarus so great—”

“You can’t just pat us all on the head and spin us out the door!” she cried, lashing a foot toward the face of one of the guards on her. Both her ankles were snatched, and she was hauled, thrashing, into the air. They still moved toward the door, but she hardly noticed. She didn’t look at them. She didn’t look away from the duke even one more time. “We have rights! The right to love with our hearts! I’m not a machine! There’s no key in my back! I have the right to choose! The sick should be allowed to marry! To have children! No!”

              The duke’s dark, level gaze was the last thing she saw, and the roar of the crowd the last thing she heard before the double doors clapped shut in her face.

              The holding cell of Taliko Center was located midway up a back tower, and there were almost two dozen people inside, most dressed in the garb of the lower class, most strewn on the floor itself or groaning in reclining positions. They didn’t seem to know they were in a small prison so much as a washroom.

              “Hey, new girl! Oooh, new boy, take off that mask, bet you cute,” an older woman lounging against the wall called to them. “Welcome to the
reeeeal
party!” She hiccupped and belched, reeking of fermented power pops.

              “Shut
up,
you—haugh!” another prisoner rebuked, lunging mid-word to vomit out an open window.

              “Don’t mind them,” the security goon at Legacy’s legs told her, barely flicking a look at her new companions or at her as he deposited her gracelessly into a standing position. Dax was dumped off next, and those two guards turned and left wordlessly, as if he’d only been a bag of trash, this the bin. Dax jerked to adjust his clothing, blue eyes—one blackened—thundering above his rebreather. “Oi, Gustav, you’ll be letting us know when you’re done with that, won’t you?” Leg Goon shouted to the puking man, whose head was out the window.

              “Gonna be a while,” Gustav called back.

“Now, there ain’t no need to overreact—again—Missus Legacy,” the goon at Legacy’s arms said, releasing them from their restraints.

“It’s Miss,” Legacy corrected icily, massaging her wrists.

The jailer considered for a second. “I suppose it would be, wouldn’t it?” Arm Goon replied. “Well, Miss Legacy, Mister Ghrenadel, you’ll be let go at the close of the Taliko Center in approximately two hours, all right? You’ll also have your names added to a blacklist, so be aware of that, too, all right, Miss Legacy, Mister Ghrenadel.”

              “A
what
list?” Dax fumed. Legacy hadn’t dared look at him since realizing he’d been present in the concert hall, and she didn’t look at him now.

              The man who had once bound Legacy’s feet had already turned his back to reclaim his post, and the man at her arms was relocking the huge cell without meeting her eyes. After the key was turned, a second set of bars, these horizontal, speared the first, creating an impassable grid of iron. “Public events blacklist,” he elaborated casually. “But this is your first offense, so you’ll only be on it for a year, then. It ain’t so bad.”

              Legacy glared at him for a moment, as if he might look back at her, but he didn’t. Bested, she turned to observe the room, and only then did she allow her eyes to creep over her companion.

Dax looked back at her, grim, breathing heavily, otherwise silent. His oxygen gauge fluttered madly, but it was still at the positive end.

Legacy offered an apologetic smile. She supposed that being in jail with Dax Ghrenadel was second only to having his eligibility mysteriously, graciously permitted. And it was even still worlds better than the uncomfortable dance for which Liam Wilco had begged.