Caleb didn’t feel sorry for Chris. His dad’s rules—you fight your own battles—had caused him to get the shit kicked out of him by his older brothers on a weekly basis. No one ever stepped in for him.
“Can I ask you a question?”
That was Chris. Caleb must have been staring at him. Maybe Caleb was smirking a little bit, thinking about the misfortune that had befallen his brother. That was a mistake. It was always better to avoid eye contact in this house.
“What?” Caleb replied.
Chris took a swig from his bottle of beer. He’d gotten a bit of a potbelly since Caleb last saw him. Both his brothers were drinking, a small colony of bottles on the coffee table in front of them.
“Now that you’re a big-shot mutant or whatever,” Chris began, “can we still call you Gayleb?”
“You should never have called me that in the first place,” Caleb replied quietly. “Actually, my roommate Nigel is gay.”
Caleb wouldn’t have been able to explain why he said that. He always did that kind of thing when he was younger and getting stared down by his brothers—volunteered information, overshared, gave them ammunition. In his sessions with Dr. Linda—before they found out she was an evil spy for the Foundation—she had suggested that Caleb’s anxiety about his brothers was why he was so taciturn and repressed.
Charlie sucked his teeth at the mention of Nigel. “I’ll never understand how these goddamn aliens picked who got superpowers.”
“Legacies,” Caleb corrected.
“Whatever.” Charlie was much subtler than Chris when it came to insults; always had been.
“That’s sweet,” Chris butted in, leering at Caleb. “You and this kid make out all the time?”
“No. We don’t make out,” Caleb said flatly. “You’re ignorant as shit.”
Chris barked a laugh. “I’m ignorant? You hear that, dude?” He asked, nudging Charlie. “Little brother goes off to freak school in California and all of a sudden he talks like some liberal blogger. You going to lecture me about trigger warnings next?”
Before Caleb could reply, Charlie wrapped his arm around Chris and pulled him close, smiling slyly.
“Bro, do you remember the year of Santa Claws?” Charlie asked Chris in a stage whisper.
Chris clapped a hand over his face. “You mean the best Christmas ever? How could I forget that?”
Charlie grinned at Caleb. “You remember that?”
“Yeah,” Caleb replied. “I remember.”
Santa Claws. That was what the brothers considered to be one of their better pranks. It was Christmas Eve and Caleb had only managed to get to sleep after what felt like hours of tossing and turning, too excited about the morning to come. Chris had shaken him awake. Whispered in his ear, “Wake up, Caleb, I think I hear Santa Claus.”
How had Caleb been so stupid? He shook his head at the memory. He was young and hadn’t yet learned to be suspicious of everything his older brothers said and did.
“You were so damn excited . . . ,” Chris laughed, recounting the story. “Kept trying to hold my hand and shit . . .”
Caleb remembered. He was excited. It was like they were on a secret mission. He was almost more thrilled that Chris had thought to include him than he was to see Santa Claus. They crept through the house, towards the living room where Caleb sat now. They could hear the rustle of wrapping paper and booted footfalls. Caleb peeked around the corner and had to clap a hand over his mouth to stifle a gasp. Santa was really there, his back to them as he rummaged through the presents, a red suit and curly white hair, just like in the storybooks.
“I shoved him around the corner,” Chris said, wiping his eyes.
“And that’s when I turned around . . . ,” Charlie added.
Santa loomed over young Caleb. He’s wasn’t like the stories at all. Huge fangs filled his mouth and his face was smeared with blood. Instead of fingers, he had long claws that shone in the Christmas tree’s blinking lights.
“Ho, ho, ho!” Santa had bellowed. “You’re going to die!”
His brothers were cracking up now.
“Had all that fake blood and the vampire teeth left over from Halloween,” Charlie explained. “Took us a while to tape all the steak knives to my fingers.”
“Worth it,” Chris said. “Totally worth it.”
Young Caleb had shrieked and run upstairs, sobbing and hysterical when he launched himself into his parents’ bed. That was, as it happened, how he learned that Santa wasn’t real.
“You pissed your pants, too,” Chris said.
“I was eight,” replied Caleb.
“I think dad was madder about that than the prank,” Charlie said with a smirk. “They’d just gotten you over the whole bed-wetting thing.”
“How long did we get grounded for?” Chris asked, shaking his head.
“Oh man, so long.”
“Always telling on us,” Chris said to Caleb, taking a disapproving swig of beer.
“I thought there was a monster in the house,” Caleb replied.
And what had been the aftermath of Santa Claws? For starters, Caleb had to endure a stern lecture about how neither Santa Claus nor monsters were real, and how he needed to develop some backbone. The older boys had gotten grounded for a month, which, of course, they viewed as Caleb’s fault because he couldn’t take a joke.
“You guys beat me up almost every day for like a month after that,” Caleb said quietly.
“What else were we supposed to do?” Charlie asked innocently.
“It was boring being stuck in the house,” Chris said with a chuckle.
“I’d like to see you try that now.”
Caleb flinched and glanced over his shoulder. One of his duplicates had sprung loose. He stood behind Caleb with his arms crossed, glaring at the brothers.
Both Charlie and Chris had fallen silent. Their eyes were wide, Chris frozen with his beer bottle in front of his mouth. It occurred to Caleb that his brothers had never seen what he could do. The first duplicate had been an accident, but . . .
Caleb decided to go with it.
In a moment, there were six copies of Caleb, three on either side of his chair. They stood there cracking their knuckles or rolling their necks, like they were getting ready for a fight. Caleb sat back calmly, one eyebrow raised.
“Sucks to be outnumbered, doesn’t it?” he asked.
Charlie swallowed with some difficulty. “Easy now, bro. We were just messing around.”
At a mental command, each of the duplicates took one forceful step forward. Charlie yelped. Chris threw himself over the back of the couch.
Caleb laughed. He couldn’t remember ever openly laughing at his brothers like that.
Of course, the victory was short-lived.
“What in the hell is this?”
Caleb’s dad stood in the doorway, drawn away from his football game by the commotion. He looked from the gang of duplicates on one side of the room to his older boys cowering on the other. His thin lips curled in stern disgust, which he aimed directly at Caleb.
“Didn’t think I’d have to make this clear, boy, but I don’t want none of that alien shit going on in my house.”
“Or what?” one of the duplicates asked.
His father’s face turned red, all the way up through his buzz cut. He wasn’t used to insubordination in any facet of life. He glared at the offending duplicate, then at Caleb.
“I know that thing didn’t just sass me,” Caleb’s dad said icily. “In my own house.”
Caleb stared at his dad, whose face just got redder and redder. His palms were sweaty. He knew that he should back down and defuse the situation by absorbing his duplicates. He’d probably already gone too far by using them to intimidate his brothers. Garde weren’t supposed to use their Legacies against defenseless humans, even if they were total jerks.
But then—what could Caleb’s dad actually do to him? Caleb didn’t live here, didn’t eat his food, didn’t rely on him in any way. His dad di
dn’t have any power over him. Caleb hadn’t even wanted to come home in the first place, and tomorrow he’d be whisked right back to the Academy. Caleb was free of all this.
And yet, his father’s glare made him feel small again.
“Please, Caleb, can we just listen to Dad? He looks so mad.”
Caleb flinched. That mewling voice was his own. One of the duplicates had broken ranks with the others and was half doubled over like he might vomit from nervousness, wringing his hands together and staring pleadingly at Caleb.
It’d been months since Caleb had last allowed his feelings to overwhelm him and lost control of one of the clones. For a while Caleb had thought his duplicates had minds of their own—or at least that’s what he tried to convince himself—but really they were like emotional release valves. Too much pressure in Caleb’s head and one of them could act out.
Of course it would happen right after his big moment of triumph over his brothers. They were both smirking now, Chris snickering behind his hand even though he was still half hiding behind the couch. With every second that the duplicate fretted and whined, Caleb’s dad looked less angry and more mystified.
His mom, meanwhile, cooked dinner in the kitchen, pretending nothing was going on. Like always.
The duplicate made a wet sucking noise, flapping its lower lip like it was trying to keep itself from crying.
The embarrassment was too real. Caleb shot to his feet and absorbed the duplicates. Not making eye contact with any of them, he stormed out of the room. His father let him go. Too weirded out, probably.
“Did you see that?” he heard Charles ask Chris.
“He’s a goddamn mental case,” Chris replied. Caleb grabbed his coat and walked right out of the house.
He only made it as far as the porch.
It was freezing outside, no more than twenty degrees, a dusting of frost on everything. Caleb’s fingers tingled and his cheeks stung. What was he doing? Running away from home? He’d already kind of accomplished that.
No. He was just getting some air. That was the manly thing to do. Cool down, let it blow over.
He sat down on the porch swing, the wooden slats freezing on the backs of his legs, the metal chains creaking at his weight. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and blew out a cloud of mist. He shivered.
This was miserable, but he’d stay out here all night if he had to. Skip dinner. Wait for everyone to go to bed. Get out of here in the morning.
That was a good plan.
A set of headlights lit up the quiet block. Caleb watched them come. They belonged to a black SUV, the kind with heavily tinted windows and armor plating down on the sides. A government vehicle for sure, which wasn’t such an unusual sight being so close to the military base. He’d been driven from the airport in a car just like it, the UN Peacekeepers not breaking off until he was safely ensconced with his family. He glanced down the block; his bodyguards were still there, parked at a respectful distance to keep watch. He felt sympathy for the small detachment of Peacekeepers who had to spend the day sitting around a nothing block in Omaha. At least someone was having a worse Christmas than him.
To Caleb’s surprise, the SUV pulled into his driveway. For a moment, he let himself hope that this was his ride to the airport and they’d come to collect him early.
Then, the SUV’s back door opened and his uncle stepped out.
“Did I miss dinner?”
Retired General Clarence Lawson wore a fur-trimmed black parka that hung open, revealing a tacky Hawaiian shirt and khaki pants beneath. He rubbed his hands together, breathed into them, then hastily zipped up his coat. His silver buzz cut stood out in the night, accentuated by his leathery tan.
Uncle Clarence didn’t come to Christmas in Omaha. Ever. Either he was too busy with work or, after he retired, he was too busy enjoying golf courses drenched in the Florida sun. He was Caleb’s mom’s older brother and, at other family events over the years, Caleb had occasionally perceived some tension between Clarence and his father. That was to be expected. They were both military men, but Caleb’s dad’s career had plateaued at sergeant, whereas Clarence was once the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The highest-ranking officer in the country.
He was now something of an American hero. Uncle Clarence had been called out of retirement during the invasion to coordinate the resistance against the Mogadorians and was widely credited for unifying the world’s many governments, not to mention the Loric, around a cohesive battle strategy.
At first, Caleb was surprised to see him there. But then it dawned on him that this was exactly why he’d gotten special dispensation to come home for Christmas. The general wanted to see him.
“You frozen to death?” General Lawson asked as he clomped up the steps onto the porch. “Or did you not hear me?”
Caleb blinked, then shrugged in response to his uncle’s original question. “They might be eating. I don’t know.”
“Don’t care if you’re missing dinner, huh?” Clarence glanced towards the front door, frowning. “They up your ass already?”
Caleb shrugged again. His uncle was trying to be all jocular and friendly, but Caleb didn’t buy it. The last time they’d seen each other had been at a military base on an island—Guantanamo, Nigel always theorized—where they put the Garde no one knew what to do with while the Academy was built. Things there hadn’t been great.
Nonetheless, Clarence sat down on the swing next to Caleb.
“Going to make an old man sit out here and freeze? Okay. That’s your prerogative.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out a long metal case, producing a cigar from within. “You want one?”
“No thanks.”
“Hmm. There was a time that would’ve been ‘no thank you, sir.’”
Clarence was half joking with the criticism, but Caleb bristled. It was too close to something his dad would say. Caleb felt the sudden urge to release one of his duplicates and fought it back. Meanwhile, the general held a Zippo to his cigar, puffing obliviously until a thick cloud of fragrant smoke wafted up from the tip.
“How are things at the Academy?” Clarence asked as he settled in next to Caleb.
“Fine.”
“Heard you got in a bit of trouble. Unauthorized departure from campus. Maybe some more serious violations of Garde protocol.”
“Why did you bring me here?” Caleb asked sharply. When his uncle didn’t answer right away, he pressed on. “You did bring me here, right? Pulled strings.”
“I am your uncle, Caleb.”
“I haven’t heard from you in more than a year,” Caleb replied. “You must want something.”
The general’s eyes narrowed. He tapped ash off his cigar.
“They’ve changed you at that place. Used to be you were loyal. Eager to please.” Caleb opened his mouth to reply, but Clarence raised his cigar to stop him. “Not saying it’s a bad thing. It’s good you’re becoming your own man. I thought we understood each other but if you’ve got a problem with me—”
“You made us give away our Chimærae,” Caleb blurted. “And I helped you. I can’t believe I helped you do that. What was I thinking?”
“You were following an order, just like I was,” Lawson replied quietly. “We didn’t know what might happen with those creatures . . .”
Caleb looked his uncle in the eyes. “Are they dead? Or are they, like, getting poked and prodded in a laboratory somewhere?”
Lawson met his gaze steadily. “Honestly, son, I don’t know. I could look into it for you.”
“Don’t do me any favors,” Caleb replied, looking away.
Clarence silently puffed away on his cigar for a few cold seconds.
“I’ll be straight with you,” he said at last. “I got you this little vacation from the Academy so I could be the one to tell you. They’re promoting you to Earth Garde.”
Caleb’s mouth fell open. “What?”
“I’ve still got friends in the organization; they gave me the heads-up. Prevailing w
isdom after your skirmish with those Harvester folks is that you’re ready for fieldwork. Not to mention, reports from the psychiatrist there have greatly improved.”
Caleb’s whole body felt numb, and not from the cold. “I’m . . . I’m leaving the Academy?”
“Should go through in the next week or so. You’re going to be on a detachment with Melanie Jackson herself.”
The prospect of working alongside the president’s daughter did nothing to diminish the dread Caleb was feeling. They were doing important work at the Academy, planning against the Foundation. He couldn’t leave. Not yet.
“I’m not . . . I’m not ready.”
“Earth Garde seems to think otherwise.” Clarence paused and leaned forward to make eye contact with Caleb. “Thing is, I’m also here to ask you for a favor.”
“A favor.”
“Like I said, I’ve still got colleagues involved with the Earth Garde program. Some of them have approached me about concerns they’re having.”
“What kind of concerns?”
Now his uncle got cagey. “Nothing they can put their finger on, exactly. Just oddities here and there. Strange allocations of resources. Preferential treatment. That sort of thing. You remember why they called me out of retirement in the first place? Back during the invasion?”
“Because the Mogs had corrupted too many people in the government,” Caleb answered distractedly. “They needed someone they could trust.”
“That’s right,” Clarence replied. “Authorities made a lot of arrests in the year after the invasion. But suppose . . . suppose they didn’t catch them all, huh? Maybe there’s still some MogPro people out there. What would they be doing now, do you think?”
Fugitive Six Page 9
