“We watched from the window,” Duanphen said. “I don’t understand what I saw.”
“I was on the ground and I don’t understand it,” Caleb told her.
“Ugh, I can’t believe we’re back on this butt-smelling ship already,” Isabela added unhelpfully.
Ran agreed with all these statements, but she always found it more useful to keep quiet and observe rather than join the confused chorus. She stood in the doorway to the skimmer’s cockpit, shoulder against the cool metal frame, arms crossed. They were all crammed in there. Five flew the ship, keeping them cloaked and at high speed as they fled Italy. The rest of them gathered around Einar, who knelt on the floor, a half-dozen tablet computers spread out before him.
“I’ll show you,” Einar muttered, paging through a tablet’s files with frustrated, manic flicks of his fingers. “I know it’s in one of these.”
The tablets all once belonged to members of the Foundation. Ran didn’t want to know exactly how Einar acquired them, although she could guess. They contained the identities of other Foundation members, their contacts and lackeys, location data and bid histories on the Garde they had purchased at auction. But not one tablet contained all the information. There was no skeleton key that would unlock the entire shadowy network. The Foundation was purposely kept compartmentalized—no member had access to more than a sliver of all the organization’s secrets. As they traveled across Europe, they learned that the tablets were quickly becoming obsolete. The Foundation knew some of its members had been compromised and were adjusting.
“You could just tell us,” Caleb said. “Use your words. You usually love that.”
“Better to see for yourselves what we’re up against,” Einar replied without looking up.
“You keep saying that.”
“Yes,” Einar agreed. “Because you keep making me repeat myself.”
“Here they go again,” Isabela said with a roll of her eyes that Ran found just as predictable as Einar and Caleb bickering. “Let me know when we’re landing somewhere good. I’ll be in my closet questioning my life decisions.”
Isabela brushed by Ran on her way out of the cockpit, departing for the storage room she’d turned into a bedroom. Caleb kept his sleeping bag against a bulkhead near the exit ramp. Five slept in the cockpit. Einar, who didn’t sleep nearly enough, stayed in the ship’s armory, which lacked weapons but now had plenty of stolen money, artwork and jewelry. Duanphen and Ran shared the cramped passenger area, which was really just two hard benches along opposite walls. They were practically on top of each other all the time and Isabela was right about the smell. The entire ship reeked of armpits, stale breath and chicken nuggets. These skimmers were built for ferrying Mogadorians from their warships to ground combat. They weren’t homes. They weren’t even dorm rooms.
Ran wasn’t going to sulk about it like Isabela, but she’d definitely been looking forward to some time off the ship. It was the claustrophobia that made them so quick to snap at each other.
“You almost killed an old man,” Caleb said to Einar.
“But I didn’t,” Einar replied. “Believe me. I could’ve hit him harder.”
“Oh, so it was all under control?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“I don’t care what you believe, Caleb,” Einar said through his teeth. He tossed a tablet aside with a force that suggested otherwise, picking up another in the same angry motion. “Stop badgering me for five seconds so I can find what I’m looking for.”
Duanphen looked between the two boys, as if not entirely sure what they were fighting about or whether she should intervene. When she glanced in Ran’s direction, Ran offered a subtle shake of her head. Don’t bother. Let it play out.
This tug-of-war for control between Einar and Caleb had been going on since this mismatched group first flung themselves together. In Ran’s estimation, both guys were going through some serious existential crises. Caleb had abandoned what Isabela referred to as his “Boy Scout lifestyle” and was now constantly trying to justify that decision by checking Einar and keeping them on mission—even if that mission was often as elusive as the Foundation. Meanwhile, Einar’s abundance of confidence had dwindled since his big speech in Switzerland failed to turn him into an icon for the Human Garde. Instead, he’d been branded a terrorist. No one had rallied to his cause except those aboard this skimmer and, even for them, teaming with Einar was something of a matter of necessity. Einar had nearly been killed. He had no plan. He was spiraling. Making a fuss about what happened in Italy was his way of exerting some control, even if it was totally misplaced.
So Ran let the two of them argue. If it was ever really necessary, she would obviously side with Caleb. It wasn’t so long ago that Einar had used his telekinesis to break her ribs and then nearly killed her best friend. But, for now, their quarrels were no more serious than Isabela’s constant complaints about her living conditions. They were a pressure release.
“Aha!” Einar shouted, holding up a tablet in both hands. “I told you it was here!”
“Finally,” Caleb muttered. He came to stand alongside Einar, to look down at the tablet. Duanphen and Ran joined the huddle and soon the skimmer’s autopilot kicked on and Five came back too.
With all their attention, Einar seemed a bit restored to his old, authoritative self.
“This tablet comes from a Blackstone mercenary I took out back in Iceland,” Einar explained. “Unbeknownst to the Foundation, they sometimes record their combat engagements. This is from after the invasion, when the Foundation was just starting up . . .”
“Play it, please,” Ran said simply, having had enough of the exposition. Einar’s lips quirked into a brief frown, but he did as she asked.
The screen came alive with grainy, green-tinted video. A group of mercenaries in gunmetal body armor appeared—the Blackstone outfit that Ran was all too familiar with—crammed into what looked like a suburban living room with wood-paneled walls, shag carpet and flower-print furniture. There were five mercenaries in total, all of them wearing gloves and helmets with visors, and all of them devoted to wrestling one skinny, wriggling teenager.
“My son is possessed!” a resonant baritone voice shouted from off-screen. “There’s a devil in my son!”
“Would someone please shut up the preacher?” one of the mercenaries snarled.
Ran focused on the boy at the center of the scrum. He wore pajama pants and a tank top, splotches of acne visible on his narrow shoulders. Probably about fifteen years old. He had wild, wavy brown hair that had been tied back in a ponytail until the mercenaries started grappling with him.
How was this one boy holding back a group of combat-trained adults? Telekinesis. Not the precision control that Ran had practiced in her time at the Academy, but the raw, desperate force of a new Garde fighting for their life. Grown men were thrown backwards by sudden bursts of force or else slammed up against the ceiling. Random objects from around the room spun through the frame—ceramic angels, mostly, but also a large metallic crucifix that hit the face guard of one mercenary with enough force to crack it open.
“It isn’t the devil, Daddy!” the boy shouted. “It’s a gift! I could see into your heart when I touched you! I saw your sins—”
“Lies!” the off-screen father bellowed back.
While the two argued, the mercenaries were trying to tug the scrawny boy into a straitjacket. Apparently, this was before the invention of Inhibitors.
Fed up with the screaming and the tchotchkes breaking across his shoulders, the mercenary with the shattered face mask lunged forward and delivered a right hook to the kid’s jaw. The punch dropped him to his knees and immediately some Blackstone guys wrenched his arms back.
“Careful with him, Crenshaw,” one of the other men reprimanded the puncher. “They want him in one piece.”
“Someone had to do it,” said Crenshaw. “Done playing nice with these hicks.”
“You’re compromi
sed, clear the area immediately,” replied the first. “Remember, no skin-to-skin contact—”
A sudden burst of telekinesis flung aside the mercenaries pinning the boy’s arms, allowing him to pop to his feet and thrust his hand through Crenshaw’s broken visor. The boy’s mouth was bloody, which made his crooked smile all the more off-putting.
And then, suddenly, the boy’s body went limp, collapsing to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.
One of the mercenaries started screaming, “Subdue Crenshaw! Subdue—!”
But they were too slow. The mercenary Crenshaw now wore the boy’s odd smile. He pulled a sidearm swiftly from his hip and opened fire on his colleagues.
The video cut off when the soldier doing the recording pitched over backwards from getting shot in the chest.
Caleb broke the silence in the cockpit. “What did . . . ? What did that kid just do?”
“The Foundation described his Legacy as tactile consciousness transfer,” Einar replied, replaying the scene on the tablet, this time on mute.
“He’s a possessor,” Five said. “A body jumper.”
“Yes,” confirmed Einar. “His name is Lucas Sanders and with a touch he can transfer his consciousness into another body. Once in a new body, he can transfer into another and another, all with a touch.”
Ran thought back to the woman watching the villa in Italy, how she’d traded seats with a man when she’d shown up, which was why Ran noticed her in the first place.
“I thought it was a team of agents running surveillance,” she said aloud. “But it was just him. Taking control of locals.”
“Most likely,” Einar said. “We’re lucky you spotted him when you did. If he had gotten close enough to us to initiate contact . . .” Ran noticed how Einar’s gaze flicked in Five’s direction, likely imagining the damage that could’ve been done if this Lucas guy took control of the Loric. “While in a host body, Lucas doesn’t have his telekinesis. However, he is able to access the host’s memories. Look through them. That’s how the Foundation wanted to use him. For petty reasons, like finding out if your wife was cheating on you. Or for financial gain, like by stealing trade secrets right out of an inventor’s mind. But Lucas proved too unstable to be useful. At least that’s what I heard.”
“What happens to the people he possesses?” Caleb asked.
“They report being aware of their actions although incapable of stopping themselves. They describe it as dreamlike.”
“You know a lot about this guy,” Caleb said.
“Lucas was one of the first Foundation recruits, along with me,” Einar said, speaking frankly. “We were mostly kept separate, except for some training exercises, but I saw enough to know he was completely out of his mind.”
Caleb shot Ran a look to point out the irony of Einar calling someone else crazy. Ran didn’t find it ironic, though. She found it worrying.
“I never heard of him when I was with the Foundation,” Duanphen said.
“No, you came along later,” Einar replied. “By then, Lucas was dead. Or, at least, he was supposed to be.”
“What do you mean?” Five asked.
“Lucas was insane. He is insane,” Einar corrected himself. “His father was a Christian fundamentalist who believed that Legacies were a plague sent by the devil. Lucas also believed that, with the added delusion that he was an archangel, heaven-sent to stop those with Legacies. Or, really, anyone he didn’t like. There were rumors about things he did on Foundation missions—killings beyond those sanctioned by our handlers. Attacks on other Garde. All in the name of judgment.”
“Hold on,” Caleb interjected. “Why does all that religious stuff sound so familiar?”
“Lucas’s father is—well, was, Reverend James Robert Sanders. Reverend Jimbo. The leader of the Harvesters.”
“You killed that man,” Ran said.
“Yes,” Einar agreed. “And I would do it again.”
Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ.”
“That’s exactly how Lucas thinks of himself,” Einar said.
“A Garde who hates his own kind,” Ran murmured. “A valuable weapon in the hands of a group like the Foundation.”
Five grunted his agreement.
“The Foundation spends most of their time exploiting Garde for profit,” continued Einar. “But they also aren’t shy about eliminating those of us who they feel are a danger to humanity. I’d heard that Lucas was quote-unquote retired. Too many escape attempts, too difficult to control. I thought they killed him. I should’ve known they would never dispose of an asset that valuable. He must have been imprisoned somewhere until they had a reason to let him loose.”
“You’re a pretty good reason,” Caleb said.
“Yes, it seems the best way to control Lucas is to let him do what he loves,” Einar said, pursing his lips. “Hunt Garde and judge them.”
“But how did he find us?” Duanphen asked.
Caleb glanced down at the tablets still scattered on the floor at Einar’s feet. “Could they be tracking those?”
Einar shook his head. “No. Here is where the Foundation’s paranoia plays to our advantage. For their own security, their computers cannot be traced.”
“If they had a tracker on us, we’d be getting attacked twenty-four/seven,” Five said.
“They know which of their people we’ve identified,” Caleb replied. “If they’re smart enough to evacuate them from their mansions, it stands to reason they could also be staking out those locations.”
“Perhaps if it was Blackstone waiting for us, I would agree,” Ran said. “But it was only this boy. How would he know to be in Italy? It must be more than a lucky guess.”
“So, they are tracking us,” Caleb said, screwing up his face. “But not in a way that’s consistent.”
“Makes no sense,” Five grumbled.
Ran turned to look at Einar. “More importantly, if we encounter this boy again, how do we stop him?”
“Well, obviously, don’t let him touch you,” Einar replied. “If the body he possesses is rendered unconscious, Lucas is flung back to his own. It’s why I hit that old man so hard—”
“This is sick,” Caleb said, looking at Einar. “It’s even worse than what you do. We can’t beat up on his hosts just because they had the bad luck for this guy to touch them.”
“Does his Legacy have a range?” Duanphen asked. “Does he need to maintain a certain distance from his actual body?”
“No,” Einar replied. “In all likelihood, Lucas’s body is under guard in a Foundation facility somewhere. At least, if we knock out one of his hosts, we could send him back there. Buy us some time.”
“What we should be doing is searching for his location,” Five said. “Cut the head off the monster.” Caleb shot Five a look and the Loric held up his hands. “Metaphorically.”
“It is not a bad idea,” Ran said. “If this Lucas chooses to threaten us, we should respond in kind.”
“And if we can find this facility, we might dig up some dirt on the Foundation that actually sticks,” Caleb said, coming around to the idea.
Einar smiled. He looked energized. At last, they had a mission that wasn’t just stumbling towards dead ends. He bent down to gather up the tablets. “I have an idea where to start looking. Just give me time to do some research.”
“Here, let me help,” Duanphen said. She picked up some of the tablets and followed Einar out of the cockpit.
Caleb blew out his cheeks. “Well, I guess I should go tell Isabela everything she missed. Tell her to avoid letting strange men touch her.”
Ran raised an eyebrow.
“I mean, I won’t use those words exactly . . .”
Caleb exited the cockpit. Ran couldn’t help but smile a little as she watched him attempting to straighten his blond hair as he left. The boy was like a moth to the flame when it came to Isabela.
With a grunt, Five returned to the pilot’s seat. They were alone. Ran lingered a moment, un
sure of how to approach speaking to the intimidating Loric. There was something on her mind, a thought that had been nagging at her for months now, one that had only grown more persistent with the discovery of this Lucas character. She had a question and Five was the only one around capable of answering it.
She padded forward and sat down in the copilot seat. Five’s one eye rolled in her direction, but he didn’t say anything.
“May I ask you a question?”
Five fully turned in her direction, a look of surprise on his face. His brow furrowed and unclenched. His mouth opened and closed. Ran gazed steadily at him, her own expression impassive. She knew Five was damaged; that social interactions weren’t always easy for him. She gave him time to respond.
“A question,” he repeated finally. “Sure.”
“The Loric entity traveled to Earth from your dying planet, yes?”
Five looked at her strangely. “That’s what you want to talk about? Ancient history?”
“It’s a starting point. To be honest, I have many questions,” Ran replied. “I’ve had them for some time, actually, but never ordered my thoughts enough to ask them. I’ve had a lot of time with my thoughts on this ship.”
“Okay,” Five grunted. He was obviously still confused by Ran’s approach—she didn’t even fully understand why she’d chosen this moment or even this Loric to speak with—but he decided to play along. “Yeah. The Loric entity fled here during the annihilation of Lorien. A piece of it was actually already here because some of the Elders anticipated what Setrákus Ra was up to but . . . yeah. Why do you want to know about that crap?”
“Those who don’t study history are doomed to repeat it,” Ran replied.
“Uh-huh. Heard that one before.”
Ran relaxed in her seat a bit, growing more comfortable that Five wouldn’t suddenly shut down the conversation or otherwise flip out.
“This entity is a being of pure energy. Your people didn’t fully understand it. Mine certainly don’t. But we all agree that it’s capable of bestowing Legacies.”
Five turned to look out the windscreen at the dark clouds coasting by. “Pretty much sums it up,” he replied with a yawn.
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