Return to Zero

by Pittacus Lore

  “By frying their brain,” Nigel muttered.

  “I’ve actually already had my Inhibitor installed,” Melanie continued, tossing back her hair and tilting her head towards the host. “Do you see my scar?”

  The host leaned forward. “I don’t see anything.”

  She smiled. “Of course you don’t. The surgery is quick and Earth Garde has great healers ready to aid in the recovery. I was out for about an hour and now I’m completely safe.”

  “They’re . . . they’re going to make us get brain surgery?” Lisbette asked, looking around the room with wide eyes.

  “This is Orwellian,” Dr. Chen said.

  “You mentioned that these chips can be controlled remotely,” the host said. “Who is going to do that? Earth Garde, I assume. But who specifically?”

  “Great question,” Melanie replied. “We’re actually borrowing a concept from the Loric for that. On their planet, they had people called Cêpans. These were people without Legacies who were trained to handle Garde. They acted as teachers, bodyguards and friends. Starting at the Academy level, each Garde will be assigned a Cêpan who will directly oversee their training and monitor their behavior for dangerous patterns.”

  “I’ll make some dangerous patterns on their faces if that lot tries to chip me,” Nigel said.

  Dr. Chen shook her head. “What she’s saying undermines everything we’ve built here. We’re trying to give you an approximation of a normal school experience, at least. Not this—this nannying.”

  “And this process is in motion already?” the host inquired.

  “It is,” Melanie replied. “Everyone in Earth Garde has already received their Inhibitor and been matched with a Cêpan. It’s rolling out to the Academy as soon as some logistics are worked out.”

  “What happens to Garde who don’t go along with this? Like the at-large terrorist Einar Magnusson?”

  “Well, people like Einar and his cohorts are in clear violation of the Garde Accord,” Melanie said coldly. “They’ll be hunted down, chipped and detained until it’s determined they aren’t a danger to themselves or others.”

  The host seemed to consider this for a moment. His tone shifted unexpectedly. “All due respect, Ms. Jackson—and I’m as frightened at the possibility of a dangerous rogue Garde as anyone—but this strikes me as a bit of a dangerous overcorrection. What you’re talking about is performing an invasive surgery on teenagers before they’ve even done anything wrong.”

  Nigel clapped his hands. “Hell yes! This bloke gets it!”

  Melanie’s smile never faltered. “Can I tell you something that a lot of people don’t know, George? It’s going to sound slightly crazy because, well, we live in a pretty crazy world now. When I received my Legacies—and any of the other first-generation Garde will back me up on this—I also had a vision of like Loric history. A warning, basically. And you know what? Setrákus Ra, the sick monster who invaded our planet and killed how many? Two million people? He was a Loric. He had Legacies. He was insane, obviously, and not like the Loric who rescued us and signed on to the Garde Accord that makes Earth Garde possible—but still. Imagine if the Loric had the good sense to stick a simple microchip in Setrákus Ra back when he was just slightly crazy. Imagine how many people would still be alive. Heck, I might not even have Legacies because there would’ve never been an invasion, if those people had just shown a little foresight.”

  “Bollocks,” Nigel said, running a hand across his Mohawk. “She actually went there.”

  “That’s—that’s a great deal to take in,” the host replied, on his back foot now. “And we need to take a break. But we’ll be back with—”

  A loud tone blared, drowning out the TV and its commercials. It took Nigel a moment to realize that the Academy’s emergency PA system had been activated. The school-wide messaging system was controlled from the Peacekeeper camp and was meant to notify students of incoming threats. Outside of fire-drill-style tests every six months, the system had never been used in all of Nigel’s time at the Academy.

  “Attention, students of the Human Garde Academy.” That was Greger’s voice, coldly authoritative, booming over the speakers. “The following students are required to report immediately to the Peacekeeper encampment for mandatory processing. Daniel Abernathy, Omar Azoulay, Nigel Barnaby . . .”

  Everyone in the student union stood still as Greger rattled off ten names in alphabetical order. Nigel glanced out the front windows, where he could see lights blinking on in the dorms, any classmates who were still sleeping were now awake thanks to the announcement. He imagined he could hear Professor Nine dropping off the ceiling—Nigel always imagined that Nine slept upside down because of his antigravity Legacy—pulling on some clothes and cursing up a storm. The knobs at Earth Garde were making their move.

  There was silence in the student union as Greger finished his list of names and simply cut off his broadcast. Everyone jumped at screams from the TV, a commercial with kids clamoring for chicken nuggets putting a bunch of Garde on edge.

  Omar caught Nigel’s eye from the kitchen. He had a pan in one hand, an egg-covered spatula in the other. He cocked his head uncertainly, as if to ask Nigel if they were really going. Nigel shook his head emphatically.

  A chair squeaked across the floor and Nigel turned to see Danny nervously standing up from his table.

  “Oi,” Nigel said. “Where you going, mate?”

  “I—” Danny pointed up at the ceiling, an awe in his voice like God himself had paged him. “He called my name. I’m supposed to . . .”

  Nigel sauntered around to block the exit. “Oh, Danny Boy,” he sang. “Your ass, your ass is showing . . .”

  Nobody laughed. Everyone stared at him. Nigel scratched awkwardly behind his ear. So maybe half-assed parodies of lame Irish ballads weren’t going to get the job done.

  “Right, then, listen up, Danny, and everyone else, whether you got called or not,” Nigel began, using his Legacy to ratchet up his volume just a bit, giving himself some leaderly vibrato. “Some of us just got summoned to the principal’s office, yeah? Usually, that means detention, but the way things are going it sounds like our so-called guardians got something a bit more drastic in mind. Like a lobotomy. Now, I don’t know about you lot, but I haven’t done fuck all but be a good little Garde who listens to his teachers and busts his ass in training.”

  Dr. Chen, still standing just a few feet away, raised an eyebrow at that but didn’t interrupt.

  “I didn’t sign up to let anyone stab around in my brain. Nobody in here did. I don’t care if the Queen herself wobbles out here and tells me it’s for the good of mankind. Earth Garde can’t just go changing the rules on us.”

  A number of his classmates—Omar and Lisbette included—nodded their heads in agreement. But just as many stood by with glazed eyes and shrunken shoulders, looking like they wished they’d hid under the bed that morning.

  Nigel waved to Dr. Chen. “Even the dean of academics here don’t think this is on the level. Isn’t that right, Susan?”

  Dr. Chen stared at Nigel for just a moment before she turned to the other students, her hands on her hips, adopting a posture much like she did when at the front of the classroom.

  “This entire . . . change in policy was not run by me or any of the other administrators. I would suggest you all hold off reporting until the staff has had an opportunity to discuss this matter.”

  Inwardly, Nigel breathed a sigh of relief that Dr. Chen had backed him up. Even skittish Danny eased back into his seat when someone with actual authority spoke. The vibe in the room changed. Though some were brighter than others, Nigel could see sparks of resolve in the eyes of his classmates.

  “Right, then,” Nigel concluded with a clap of his hands. “Spread the word. We stay here. We watch out for each other.” His eyes zeroed in first on Danny and then on some of the others who still looked like they might break, emulating a growl that Nine would’ve appreciated. “Anyone who crosses over to Earth Gar
de is a bloody sellout.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  ISABELA SILVA

  LE ROYAL MANSOUR—CASABLANCA, MOROCCO

  “I’LL NEED A PRIVATE SUITE. THE BIGGEST YOU have.” Isabela didn’t bother to hide her Portuguese accent. After all, the soccer star she was pretending to be wouldn’t speak perfect English. “And we are not to be disturbed.”

  “Of course, of course,” said the hotel manager, an obsequious middle-aged man in a vivid white suit. “As it happens, our penthouse is available.”

  “Perfect,” Isabela replied. “I’ll take it.”

  Giggles echoed across the hotel lobby’s beige and silver tiles. Isabela spotted a pair of girls in their twenties, half-hidden behind one of the decorative silk curtains draped from the ceiling. The two of them were tan, pretty and clad in fashionable dresses. For a moment, Isabela envied them. The girls had their cell phones out and were sneakily trying to snap photos of her.

  Of him, actually. Today, Isabela was a man. Bronzed, lean, a brilliant smile, dark hair gelled immaculately. She could re-create this appearance from memory; her youngest sister had worshipped the soccer star, posters of him and his abs all over her bedroom walls. Isabela had opted for the version without those horrible frosted tips.

  She winked at the girls, shot them with a finger-gun that made one of them swoon, then leaned across the counter. She lowered her voice to speak to the hotel manager, who was busily typing on his keyboard.

  “Bro, I thought this place was supposed to be private,” she said, making the soccer star’s voice icy.

  The manager glanced up, saw the girls and quickly snapped his fingers in the direction of a thickly built bellhop who lumbered across the lobby to chase them off.

  “Sincerest apologies, sir,” said the manager.

  “Tudo bem,” replied Isabela, flashing an endorsement-worthy smile. She glanced over her shoulder. “Where’s my assistant? Yo, bring the bag here.”

  Even though he wore a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap with the brim pulled low, Isabela spotted Caleb’s nervous tics as he approached the counter and set down the leather satchel in front of the manager. At least with his character of put-upon assistant, he wouldn’t give anything away. Not that anyone—even the manager, right there in front of him—paid Caleb any mind. Why look at him when they could be ogling Isabela’s soccer superstar. The only thing that could screw them over was if Caleb let a duplicate pop loose. She silently prayed the boy would keep control. Isabela couldn’t stand another minute on Einar’s dinky spaceship.

  She shoved the bag towards the manager.

  “It’s cool if I pay in cash, right? I want to keep this visit on the low. You can take a nice tip for yourself, of course, and put the rest on credit at the casino. I might want to do some gambling.”

  The manager flicked open the bag, glanced over the neatly stacked bundles of euros inside and nodded once. “But, of course, sir. Cash is always welcome in Casablanca. Here is your room key.”

  “Appreciate it, boss,” Isabela said, because she imagined the soccer player being the type who would call subordinates “boss” ironically. She swiveled away from the front desk and extended both of her arms. “Ladies? Shall we?”

  Ran and Duanphen stood a few feet away, both of them somehow looking even more awkward than Caleb, both of them glaring daggers at Isabela. She made a kissy face to remind them of their roles—a pair of smoke-shows that wouldn’t look out of place with a celebrity athlete. Isabela had lent them a couple of her tightest dresses from the collection she was amassing on this world tour of shoplifting, then heavily applied eye makeup and lip gloss until the two badass Garde looked almost like genuine groupies. Caleb couldn’t even bring himself to look in their direction, which was how Isabela knew her makeover efforts hadn’t gone to waste.

  In response to Isabela, Ran half-heartedly batted her eyelashes in a way that was less alluring and more like she’d lost a contact lens. It was better than Duanphen, at least, who simply stared blankly at Isabela’s athletic hunk. At least they both had the good sense to tuck in under Isabela’s arms, allowing her to lead them across the lobby to the elevator. Caleb followed after them, dragging the luggage.

  Isabela sensed that the manager and his bellhop were still watching, so she couldn’t resist. She let her hands stray casually downwards until they were resting on the girls’ butts.

  Ran turned her head and whispered. “I am going to hurt you.”

  “Nice! Dirty talk. That’s goo— Yow!”

  Isabela jumped and yanked her hand away as an electric shock traveled from Duanphen’s backside directly into her fingers.

  “Oh, you bitch,” Isabela muttered.

  Duanphen and Ran exchanged a look and then both of them laughed. Even though it was at her expense, Isabela didn’t mind. There hadn’t been much fun over the last couple of weeks, a fact that still baffled Isabela. They were free, in possession of a spaceship and, like, millions of dollars. They could go anywhere. In her case, she could be anyone.

  “Jesus, you guys are going to get us made,” Caleb grumbled as he jabbed the button for the elevator.

  Ah. The buzzkill. Right on cue.

  “Made,” Isabela repeated. “Listen to you.”

  “It means caught.”

  “I know what it means, idiota,” she replied. Isabela hadn’t actually heard that expression before but had inferred from Caleb’s sweaty armpits that he was still afraid they’d be found out.

  The elevator doors whooshed open immediately and they all piled inside. As they ascended towards the penthouse—a floor accessible only via a swipe of Isabela’s gold-plated key card—the girls scooted to one side of the elevator to get away from the soccer player’s wandering hands. Isabela wiggled her eyebrows at Duanphen.

  “I will shock you again,” she said.

  “I kind of liked it,” Isabela replied with a leer.

  Ran put a hand over her face. “Isabela. Wow.”

  “That wasn’t exactly inconspicuous,” Caleb complained.

  Isabela rounded on him. She was taller than Caleb in this form, a fact she enjoyed.

  “Oh, relax,” Isabela said. She straightened his collar. “We’re in. Everything is fine.”

  “You could’ve made yourself look like anyone,” Caleb said. “You didn’t have to choose someone famous.”

  Ran gestured at Isabela. “This man is famous?”

  “He’s one of the best soccer players in the world,” Caleb replied. “He’s also gross, so she got that part right.”

  “My sister used to flick it to him all the time,” said Isabela with a shrug. “You don’t get it. People bend over backwards for guys like him. They can pay with cash and bring their entourages around and no one bats an eye. No one even notices. It’s called hiding in plain sight.”

  Before Caleb could formulate a response, they arrived at the penthouse level and Isabela swaggered out of the elevator. She made a little cooing sound at the sight of the room—probably a weird visual coming from the soccer player, but whatever. There was no audience now. She could stop being macho and enjoy.

  A sunken common area equipped with chic leather furniture led to a trio of bedrooms; floor-to-ceiling windows across one wall offered a sweeping view of the Atlantic’s white-capped waves. A table was set with an assortment of cookies and fresh fruit, a bottle of champagne on ice and fresh orchids. The whole tableau was only slightly sullied by Five looming over the food.

  “These cookies are dry,” he commented, munching away.

  Of course, Einar and Five were already there. They had let themselves in via the penthouse’s exclusive rooftop garden. They’d gotten lucky that the place’s top floor was vacant and there was a discreet flight path in from over the ocean. Even with Isabela serving as a distraction, there was no way Five and his messed-up face could walk across the lobby with Einar, the world’s most wanted terrorist. Hiding in plain sight only worked up to a point.

  Isabela changed back into her true form�
��well, her unburned true form—and went to the table, narrowing her eyes at Five. The cookie tray was already half empty. She slapped a biscotti out of his hand.

  “Stop eating them if you don’t like them,” she commanded.

  Five rubbed the back of his hand, scowling at Isabela. “I’m hungry.”

  “Eat some fruit,” she said, popping a strawberry into her mouth and then flipping one in Five’s direction. He caught it with his telekinesis and let it rotate in the air as he examined it.

  “Did anyone see you flying up here?” Caleb asked, parking the luggage next to the door.

  “Of course not,” Einar replied. “We aren’t stupid.”

  Caleb studied Einar for a moment, clearly not convinced. Einar simply ignored him, already absorbed by the big-screen television on the far wall. That one was always watching the news. He loved to wallow in how much the world hated him.

  Caleb turned to look at Five. The Loric nodded once.

  “We were careful,” Five said flatly. “You can relax.”

  “He can never relax,” Isabela said. “He’s not wired that way.”

  Ran tugged at the hem of the dress she’d borrowed from Isabela. “I would very much like to get changed.”

  “Same,” said Duanphen.

  “But you guys look so hot,” moaned Isabela.

  They ignored her, pulling some of their normal, boring clothes free from the luggage and then retreating to one of the bedrooms.

  “You’re sure this Blackstone guy will be here?” Caleb directed this question at the back of Einar’s head.

  “He isn’t just any Blackstone guy,” Einar replied coldly. “He’s Derek King. CEO of the entire organization.”

  Einar flicked his wrist and floated a tablet in Caleb’s direction, a picture of their target displayed on the screen. Derek King was a square-jawed man in his early fifties with a full head of graying hair that he kept swept back, and sharp emerald-green eyes. In the image, he clenched a fist around some dice, hunched over a craps table. He had a couple of scars on his cheek, shrapnel from some long-ago battle—the scars not bad enough to disfigure him, just enough to give his face some weathered character. He was pretty handsome for an older dude, Isabela supposed.