Oliver Invictus (Annals of Altair Book 3)

by Kate Stradling

  In this moment of chaos, Ben dragged Oliver behind the nearest dumpster.

  “Hey!” his father called, but they bolted all the faster, rounding a corner and running down the line of metal bins.

  Shots echoed through the cement garage. Ben wrenched open one of the side-loading dumpster doors and shoved Oliver inside, among poking remnants of destroyed cubicles and office fixtures. He pulled the door shut again behind himself, and together they crouched, squeezing back into the debris while a battle escalated.

  “What about Jenifer?” Oliver asked, panting.

  “She’ll be fine. She’s resourceful.”

  He swallowed his misgivings, despite their propensity toward clawing up his throat. She would find a way out. She had to.

  He and Ben were cornered, though. They couldn’t hide in the trash forever. Their situation would become more and more hopeless by the minute.

  “You don’t have to do this,” said Oliver. “You could just turn me over to your dad. Kennedy gets neutralized and her rampage ends. Everyone wins.”

  Ben grunted a cynical laugh. “Everyone except you. They’ll use you like a tool for the rest of your life—however long they decide that’ll be.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” The gravity of that declaration set into his bones. “I’ve been a tool for as long as I can remember. Sparta can’t be any worse than what was waiting for me at Prom-E.” He shifted uncomfortably under Ben’s heavy stare. “My life was over a long time ago, and I’m resigned to it.”

  He’d had inklings of hope over the past few weeks, but nothing could change his fate. People would only ever use or discard him according to their needs.

  He was an instrument and nothing more.

  A hand clamped on his shoulder, and Ben ducked to look him square in the eyes. “Now you listen to me,” he said severely. “Your life is not over. I have worked for almost three solid years to find you an escape, and I’m not about to abandon you now, do you understand?”

  He focused on the man’s face, his breath short and his brows drawing tight. Three years…? “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about plotting and spying and resource allocations. I’m talking about an idealistic, tender-hearted handler coming almost straight to me after her internship ended and begging me to get you out of there.”

  His heart squeezed tight in his chest. “Emily? How did—how did she find you?”

  “I left her a steady trail of breadcrumbs. I took a gamble on both of you.” He withdrew a degree and raked one hand through his hair, more rattled than Oliver had ever seen him. “All the admins in Prometheus know what happens to nulls. They’re fine with using you while you’re young and then casting you off into General Stone’s clutches. You could’ve been the most rotten little brat in the world and you wouldn’t deserve that. Quincy didn’t, and Cedric doesn’t.”

  This was exactly the sort of hope that Oliver had been fighting for almost a month now. He swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. The edges of his eyes prickled. “You can make it out of here on your own. I’m fine with getting left behind.”

  “Kid, I already have a place for you to live. I have an identity set up for you, and a couple who’s ready to take you in as their own son while you get your bearings in the world. And I guarantee that if I lost you now, there’s at least one person who would have my head on a platter the instant she heard about it.”

  With a huff, Oliver looked to the ceiling. Tears blurred the edges of his vision, and he willed them not to fall. “If you’re talking about Emily, she doesn’t have it in her to swat a fly. You’ll survive whatever scolding she gives you.”

  “But will she survive such a setback?”

  He jerked, his gaze snapping to Ben’s somber face.

  The man’s whisper sent a shiver up Oliver’s spine. “That woman traded her whole life on the hope that we could pull you from Prometheus. She gave up everything, including her own name. So for the last time, I’m not leaving you to anyone’s clutches but mine. And if something happens to me, I expect you to fight tooth and nail for your freedom. Do you understand?”

  A shout echoed from afar, but the gunfire had stopped. Was Wythe prowling among the dumpsters even now? Oliver hugged himself almost into a ball, as though he could collapse into a black hole and disappear.

  “Everything is my fault,” he whispered. “All of this chaos, all of the deaths—”

  “No. It’s mine.”

  He turned in bewilderment. “I’m the one who didn’t rat out Kennedy to General Stone. Everything has fallen from that decision.”

  “But it was my fault you were getting transferred to Prom-E, so it was my fault she was able to project in the first place.”

  His stomach dropped. “What?” he croaked.

  Ben’s expression flattened. “The GCA caught wind of our plot to smuggle you out, and they tried to pre-empt us. I’m the reason General Stone ordered you to Prom-E three years early.”

  The words didn’t immediately register. Oliver opened his mouth and then shut it again, at a loss.

  From beyond the dumpsters, an explosion rocked the garage.

  “Wythe, leave the kid! Brax has the other one!” Hart’s voice, unmistakable, echoed against concrete walls. A thunder of boots clattered, Sparta soldiers running for their escape vehicles.

  “Wythe!” Hart barked. From too near, a frustrated growl erupted. Striding footsteps receded from their hiding place.

  Car doors slammed shut and tires squealed against the cement. An engine gunned and a horrific crash of metal reverberated. Sirens howled in pursuit.

  Oliver and Ben, breathless, waited for a lull. Would the GCA sweep the garage for any stragglers? Gingerly they pushed open the dumpster’s metal door and crawled out. They crept from the line of bins to a hazy parking garage.

  A mangled sedan lay on its side at the top of the ramp, proof that Sparta had rammed their way out. Some of the fallen agents were beginning to stir. Ben stooped and plucked a tranquilizer gun off one of them, along with a belt of extra cartridges. Cagily he approached the upward slope with Oliver as his shadow.

  The thrum of an engine heralded the arrival of another GCA car. Oliver and Ben backed up to the wall, Ben holding his pilfered gun at the ready. Blue lights flashing, the sedan swerved down the ramp and skidded to a stop, its broad side to them as though to block their way.

  The driver’s window rolled down. “Get in, boys,” Jenifer said. “This is our chance to escape.”

  Oliver pressed a hand to his thundering heart as Ben lunged for the vehicle. Together they piled into the back seat, and Jenifer swung the car around. “How did you—?” Oliver began.

  “I’ve told you, kid. I have a very particular set of skills.” She met his bewildered gaze in the review mirror. A chuckle escaped her lips. As the car veered out of the garage toward the main road, she explained. “While you two hid in the trash, I grabbed a riot helmet off one of the fallen agents and ran up the stairs for the fire exit. All the smoke let me blend in with the other GCA agents. I found a commander and told him there were still militants in the garage but that they were loading up to escape. And when he took off in pursuit, I stole one of their leftover cars and waited for everything to clear.”

  “How did you know we were still down there?” Ben asked.

  She smiled into the mirror. “I’ve never met someone as stubborn as you were about not going with your dad. So, I took a gamble.” Her attention shifted to Oliver. “I know you don’t like this guy, but I’m pretty sure you can trust him with your life.”

  A feeble laugh rattled his lungs. She was not Emily, true, but she had her own charms.

  Chapter 33

  New Horizons

  Friday, April 19, 8:35 AM MDT, Central Colorado

  The scar on his chest wasn’t nearly as hideous as the one on his back, but he saw it more often. Oliver shrugged a tee-shirt over his head, wincing at the tightness of his newly healed shoulder. The sling had been off fo
r almost a week, but he had months of physical therapy ahead before he would regain full mobility.

  A cool breeze wafted through the open window. In the few days he’d been here, the weather had swung like a pendulum—hot to cold, rain to sunshine to snow, sometimes in the course of a single day. It was almost as though the place wanted him to experience every variation during his short stay. He’d already cycled through a dozen safe houses, escorted from one to the next by a different Tallmadge handler each time.

  Oliver Henry Dunn was officially dead. Veronica Porcher had reported it the evening of the skirmish between Sparta and the GCA, that the malevolent school bomber had been killed in a shootout with the police. It was the story General Stone had ordered for when he had Oliver tucked safely away at Prom-E, a means of ending their fake manhunt without the public expecting a federal trial. Altair had spoofed his green light to report it, and Veronica, like a good little puppet, had read what she was told to read.

  Somewhere in Texas, Bradford Stone was absolutely livid. He’d escaped Sparta’s clutches during the second wave of GCA and police officers, but he’d returned to Prom-E with neither Oliver nor Cedric under his thumb. Oliver sincerely hoped the man would choke on his fury.

  Jenifer had gone back to Idaho. He wished her and her particular set of skills the very best. In addition to hacking a military drone, she had tapped into Sparta’s own network and copied as many of their files as she could. This combined with the data she’d pulled from Prom-F gave Altair a rich boost of intel to sift through.

  “Not bad for a counterfeit,” Ben told her when she handed him the silver teardrop.

  “Your precious Emily couldn’t’ve done any of that,” she replied, to which he laughed.

  She would get a new identity courtesy of her new Altair cell, and Oliver would never see her again. He might never see anyone he knew again.

  Outside, a pale blue car parked in front of the house, its electric engine running. He picked up the duffel bag from beside his bed and slung it over his good shoulder, leaving his temporary room behind.

  Another day, another transfer.

  His hostess had a breakfast burrito waiting for him, piping hot and portable. She smiled and opened the front door.

  “Thanks for everything,” Oliver said. When she clucked and gave him a hug, he returned it, resting his chin atop her head for a brief moment.

  She had been kind. They had all been kind, to a degree that he didn’t deserve.

  The driver of the car had gotten out to pop the trunk. As Oliver circled to the back, he raised his gaze to a broad grin in a bearded face. He stopped short, his heartbeat accelerating.

  “Hey, kiddo.” Ben tipped his head toward the trunk. “Toss your stuff in and let’s get on the road.”

  A glance toward the house showed the hostess shutting the door. Oliver deposited his duffel bag and crossed around to the front passenger seat.

  “How’s your collar bone?” Ben asked as he dropped into the car. “Is it predicting the weather for you?”

  “What’re you doing here?” Oliver blurted.

  “Taking you home. It’s your final transfer today, and I arranged for myself to play courier.” He flashed a winning smile and snapped his seatbelt into place.

  Oliver buckled his own. “Where are we going?”

  “All in good time.” The electric car started down the road. “There’s a file for you tucked behind your chair.”

  He groped toward a pocket in the back seat and extracted a large manila envelope. When he realized that Ben was watching him from the corners of his eyes, though, he set the envelope in his lap and ate his breakfast instead.

  The man suppressed a laugh. “You’ll have to open it at some point.”

  He would, but not until his last bite was gone. With utmost restraint he meticulously chewed. A glance out the corner of his eyes showed Ben with amused attention firmly on the road. A smile quivered on the man’s lips.

  Infuriating.

  Oliver wadded up the burrito’s empty napkin and stashed it in his pocket. He turned his attention at last to the envelop on his lap. His heart thundered as he slid out a file with a plastic card clipped to its front.

  Three weeks ago during one of his transfers, the Tallmadge handler had stopped to get his picture taken, with the instruction for him to smile. The result of that excursion lay before him now in the form of a government-issued ID for one Oliver Harrison.

  “No one would ever guess that was you,” Ben joked. A subtle manipulation of the eyes and forehead had rendered it less like Oliver Henry Dunn, but even Oliver had to admit that the smile by itself was foreign enough.

  “I get to keep my first name?” he asked.

  “There are enough Olivers in the world for it to pass.”

  As they navigated through suburbs to the highway, he flipped open the file and perused the papers within. His new identity was sixteen, with a birthdate coming up in July. He’d been warned that there could be as much as a two-year discrepancy in age; for adults, Altair could fudge up to seven. The profile came complete with a medical history and school transcripts. He’d attended public schools his whole life and was just finishing up his junior year.

  “We have to stop off and get your ID chip tied to that info,” said Ben. “It shouldn’t take more than half an hour.”

  “How far is the drive today?”

  “We’ll get there this afternoon.”

  He flipped a page and found profiles for his “parents,” Daniel and Melody Harrison. The husband, 38, was an IT specialist while his wife, 36, taught online. They were high school sweethearts, married when she was nineteen, and had until recently lived in Arizona.

  If any of this information was true.

  “How come there aren’t any pictures?” Oliver asked, nervous about the couple who had agreed to take him in.

  “So that if we’re intercepted before we get there, the file won’t compromise them.”

  His gaze snapped up. Ben smiled wanly. “It’s just a safety precaution. Technically I shouldn’t even give you that file until we’re within ten minutes of the house, but I figured you might want something to stare at instead of talking to me.”

  Conscious that he had been rude in his reticence, Oliver shut the folder. “How have things been?”

  “Oh, busier than a beehive. The Brotherhood is cobbling itself back together, but in the process they decided they don’t want to keep all the kids they stole from Prom-F. So, I and everyone else in Tallmadge have been running around trying to place your former classmates, and it’s been a regular circus.”

  His brows arched. “That’s almost two hundred people. Do you have that many spots?”

  “Well,” said Ben, “some of the older boys did opt to stay and train with the Brotherhood, and a fair number of the others have parents already in the Altair network. Prom-F kids were usually acquired later in life and by government force, so the parents are more likely to seek subversive help, as it were. There’s been a process of finding out who they belong to and whether a reconciliation is possible.”

  Instinctively Oliver glanced to the file on his lap, his breath quickening.

  “Your parents are still in Nevada,” Ben gently said.

  An invisible weight pressed him down. He faked a laugh to banish it. “Yeah, well, it’s not like I remember them. And if they remember me, they also think I’m a bloodthirsty school bomber, and that I’m already dead, so…” He let the sentiment trail off.

  “I’m sorry, kiddo.”

  The sympathy only made his welling emotions worse. He blinked back the stinging in his eyes and refocused his thoughts. “Have you heard anything about Sparta?”

  “No. They escaped to international waters but they’re lying low for now. That’s to be expected. They need time to brainwash Kennedy into their fold.”

  “What do they plan to do with her?”

  “I can only imagine. Whatever it is will have more finesse than Abel’s erratic attacks. They might con
sider themselves at war, but at least they try not to involve innocent civilians.”

  “Is Cedric better off with them than he would be with General Stone?” Oliver asked. That question had plagued him for the past month and more. His safety had come only because Ben had delivered the twelve-year-old into his father’s clutches that day.

  A sigh issued from the man. “No. It’s two sides of the same coin.” Almost as if reading Oliver’s thoughts, he added, “Altair couldn’t have hidden him. He still wants to belong to Prometheus.”

  “Maybe after some brainwashing he’ll want to belong to Sparta instead.”

  They lapsed into silence, the topic too heavy to pursue.

  An hour into the drive, they stopped at a house in a quiet neighborhood, where a cherubic old man activated Oliver’s ID chip to match his new profile. They stayed for a twenty-minute chat and left in a different car than they arrived in. Ben meandered through residential streets as though he hadn’t a care in the world. Oliver kept checking the mirrors to make sure no one was following them.

  Back on the highway, they headed north, toward Denver. They stopped for an early lunch, which they ate at a local park. Then more leisurely driving through neighborhoods.

  On tenterhooks to get to his destination, Oliver asked, “Are you just trying to spend more time with me before you drop me off?”

  “I’m stalling,” said Ben. “Your ‘parents’ are moving into a new house today, and I want to get there after the movers have already gone.”

  Oliver’s breath caught in his throat. “A new house? Why?”

  “New house, new city, new job for the dad, all so they can arrive with their teenaged son and nobody’s the wiser. That’s kind of what took so long getting you here. I had the people lined up but not the details for where you all would live.”

  His heart fluttered in his chest and his mouth seemed suddenly dry. These people—Daniel and Melody Harrison—had upended their lives and moved somewhere no one knew them, all because of him. He clamped his mouth shut.