Fugitive Six

by Pittacus Lore

  “They’d be figuring out ways to exploit the new world,” Caleb said. “To use the Garde to their advantage.”

  “Maybe so, maybe so.” Lawson nodded. “You have any experience with organizations like that?”

  Caleb looked at his uncle. How much did he know? Was he dropping hints that the Foundation could be tied to remnants of MogPro or was this all just a big coincidence? Caleb pictured the tidbits of research they’d gathered and theories they’d mulled over. Should he share that with his uncle? Clarence puffed innocently at his cigar, like the two boys were just out here chewing the fat in the freezing cold.

  “No,” Caleb said. “Haven’t heard about anything like that. Just guessing.”

  Caleb stared down at his hands. For a moment, his fingers doubled—twenty of them, interlaced in his lap, shaking slightly. A duplicate trying to get loose to tell his uncle the truth. He caught himself just in time. He was agitated, conflicted—that was always when he lost control.

  He took a deep breath. Steadied himself. Maybe his uncle had good intentions and was on the side of the Garde. But he’d taken away the Chimærae. He’d used Caleb in the past.

  Caleb couldn’t trust him. He could only trust his friends at the Academy. He forced himself to be of one mind on this.

  The indecision lasted only a few seconds. If his uncle noticed anything awry, he didn’t say anything. In fact, he changed the subject.

  “You know who Wade Sydal is, Caleb?”

  “The weapons manufacturer,” Caleb replied. “He makes all the gear the Peacekeepers will use on us if we ever get out of hand.”

  Lawson snorted. “I’ve seen what Garde can do. If you lot set your mind to do something, I don’t think Sydal’s trinkets will make much difference in the long run. That said, our country’s investing a great deal in his Garde deterrents. He’s an old friend of President Jackson, you know? Big campaign contributor.”

  Caleb recalled how the Harvesters were armed with anti-Garde technology, presumably supplied by the Foundation. He and his friends hadn’t been able to figure out whether the gear was stolen or Sydal was double-dealing.

  “You think he’s one of them?” Caleb asked.

  “One of whom?”

  Caleb winced. He’d slipped up, forgotten he was supposed to be talking around the existence of the Foundation.

  “One of your . . . I don’t know,” Caleb said, covering. “Conspirators? Mog sympathizers? You won’t even say.”

  Clarence tapped ash off his cigar, chuckling. “Doubt it. I was just reading an article about him on the flight up. Interesting guy. Maybe you’ll have a chance to meet him once you’re in Earth Garde. I’d love to hear what you think.”

  “Uh, okay,” Caleb said.

  “You’ll do great out there. But keep your eyes open,” Clarence said, and patted Caleb on the knee. “If you see anything odd or even if something doesn’t feel right, you know how to reach me.”

  “Yeah,” Caleb replied. He was still coming to terms with all this. He’d be leaving the Academy, just when he was finally settling in. “Okay.”

  And that was that. General Lawson stood up, wet the tips of his fingers, and pinched the end of his cigar. He shook some feeling into his feet.

  “I’m going to go see what your mom’s cooking,” he said. “Don’t freeze out here, son.”

  Caleb nodded and watched his uncle go inside. A shiver came over him and he huddled deeper into his coat, staring down the darkened street.

  “You really can’t go home again,” he muttered to himself. “Or maybe the expression should be . . . you shouldn’t go home again.”

  No one replied. For once, all the duplicates agreed with him.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE FUGITIVE SIX

  THE HUMAN GARDE ACADEMY—POINT REYES, CALIFORNIA

  LUNCHTIME AND THE DINING HALL WAS BUSTLING with activity. Groups of students filed through the buffet line, filled their trays, and lounged around tables. Others scarfed down lunches and rushed off—some kids still hadn’t finished their end-of-semester assignments and it was the last day to get those in. It was New Year’s Eve.

  Kopano smiled, enjoying all the activity. He picked up a corner of his turkey sandwich and leisurely bit into it. He didn’t have anything to do today except wait for the night’s festivities. On the second floor, volunteers were hanging streamers and cardboard HAPPY NEW YEAR! signs. That wouldn’t take long with Maiken Megalos and her superspeed zipping around up there.

  With Nigel and Caleb at an emergency band practice, Ran in training, and Isabela who-knows-where, that meant Kopano was eating his lunch alone. He didn’t mind. From his table, he had a clear view of Taylor serving food. Dining-hall duty was part of her punishment for decking Isabela. He thought she looked good, even in a hairnet.

  Kopano spaced out, thinking about that kiss on Christmas Eve and wondering how he could arrange a repeat performance without blowing Taylor’s cover. He didn’t notice the chatter in the room die down. He probably would’ve missed the whole broadcast if Simon, sitting at a neighboring table, hadn’t called his name.

  “Kopano,” Simon said, pointing up at the TV, “isn’t that you?”

  Someone had put on Wolf News. Kopano was familiar with the American network from his current-events class. They broadcast a lot of stories about lurking aliens and dangerous Garde. Everyone knew their coverage was slanted, so it wasn’t a channel that typically got played in the student union. Yet, all eyes were on the TV now.

  The screen was split. On the left was the host, Don Leary, a red-faced man in his late fifties, his majestic head of ink-black hair plugs swept back. On the right was some grainy cell phone video, the same clip repeating over and over.

  “I repeat, this footage is not for the faint of heart,” Leary gravely declared. “Even after the harrowing events of the Mogadorian invasion, it’s still disconcerting to see these superpowered things in action. But what makes this even harder to watch is that these aren’t extraterrestrial invaders being assaulted. These are American citizens. And the attackers? Not aliens either. Human beings. Ones supposedly being trained to ‘protect us.’”

  Kopano focused on the looped footage. It was dark and jumpy, filmed by someone hiding behind the back end of a car. Even so, Kopano recognized the location. It was the stretch of California highway where the Fugitive Six had fought the Harvesters.

  In the video, the sky lit up. A tracer of red cut through the dark, descended, and exploded. Bodies flew up from the blast site, limp and lifeless. A motorcycle careened by, flipped end over end.

  Another glow ignited down the road. The person filming zoomed in towards the source of the fireworks, revealing Ran with glowing objects in either hand. As the camera filmed, she hurled one of these bombs at a passing motorcyclist, knocking him off and sending his bike skittering.

  The camera suddenly jolted. Someone had been viciously thrown against the car the cameraperson used for cover. The view zoomed out just in time to reveal Kopano punching a biker across the face with enough force to bend his body over backwards.

  Kopano watched himself turn—empty-eyed, emotionless—and charge the camera. The video cut off there. Of course, the nice people at Wolf News immediately started it over. Leary spoke over the clip.

  “Our sources have identified the two assailants in the video as students at the UN’s Human Garde Academy in California. Their names and countries of origin are being kept private because they’re minors, but the footage speaks for itself. This is a heinous attack on American soil by two dangerous individuals drunk on their own power. It is exactly the kind of incident the government promised wouldn’t happen as a result of the Academy. Do you feel safer with hundreds of these . . . these creatures running wild in our own backyard? I certainly don’t . . .”

  Kopano looked away, his eyes blurry with frustrated tears. He wiped his face on the back of his hand, hoping that no one else in the student union would notice.

  Luckily, most of his peers were
also watching the news broadcast. Or maybe that wasn’t lucky at all. They were all seeing Kopano—literally out of his mind—viciously beat ordinary people.

  The broadcast switched over to an interview with a leather-clad man in a neck brace. A Harvester. He claimed that they were just a group of bikers out for a peaceful ride when they were accosted by the Garde. The host treated him sympathetically, asking him softball questions. Kopano tuned it out, his ears ringing.

  He stood up, harder than he’d meant to, and knocked over his chair. Everyone was looking at him now. Simon scooted his chair backwards, like he was afraid of Kopano.

  Kopano’s fists were clenched, a fact he didn’t even realize until Taylor appeared at his side and squeezed her fingers through his.

  “It’s all a lie,” she said, not caring that such a display might jeopardize her rebellious reputation. She raised her voice a bit, so the other students could hear. “What they’re saying isn’t how it went down at all. Missionary bikers on a ride for Jesus? Give me a break! Look at these clips. How convenient that they edited out all the parts where they shoot guns at us.”

  Some nearby students murmured agreement. But a few also edged away from Kopano. And others whispered to each other behind their hands.

  “Look at me,” Kopano said, crestfallen. The news was rerunning the clip over and over. “I look like a monster.”

  Taylor squeezed his hand tighter. “That’s not you,” she replied. “Don’t worry. This will get sorted out. Professor Nine will have your back.”

  When the news broke, Ran was in the training center with Nine. While most of the other students had left for lunch or free time, Ran wanted another run at the obstacle course. She wouldn’t use her Legacies. Her new thing was to see how far she could make it relying only on her natural physical abilities.

  Grinning, Nine had taken up the challenge beside her. They were both sweating, panting, and sore. As they ran across adjacent balance beams, a log attached to two steel chains swung down from the ceiling at them. Ran slid down on her knees, ducking beneath the battering ram. She just managed to keep steady on the beam by hooking her foot around the narrow railing. Nine, on the other hand, opted to leap over the log. Ran saw him come down, foot off-kilter, practically on the side of the balance beam—but he didn’t slip, he stuck right there, and quickly readjusted.

  “Cheating!” Ran scolded. “You’re using your antigravity!”

  Nine gritted his teeth. “It’s reflex. I can’t help it. I’m too good.”

  Ran rolled her eyes and continued on, leaping from the beam to a set of monkey bars with rungs that let loose an electric shock if she hung on too long. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a small commotion at the entrance. Dr. Goode and Greger Karlsson had just entered, the two of them hunched over a tablet as they speed-walked, looking like they were in the middle of an argument.

  “Nine!” Dr. Goode called out. “You need to see this!”

  The tone of Malcolm’s voice caused Ran to hesitate just a moment too long. The bars sent a jolt into her palms and she dropped off them, gnashing her teeth. Nine was already down, walking over to Malcolm and Greger with his hands on his hips.

  “What’s up?” he asked. “I’m trying to get my sweat on.”

  Ran normally wasn’t nosy, but something told her she should probably pay attention to this meeting. Maybe it was the way Greger looked at her—with a weird half smile like he knew something that she didn’t. Curious, Ran followed Nine, peeking over his shoulder to get a look at the tablet.

  They watched the same broadcast that Kopano and Taylor had seen in the student union, the one that millions of homes across the world were tuned into at that very moment. Other stations were starting to pick up the story too, not to mention the websites and blogs. Ran and Kopano were officially famous for attacking some allegedly saintly bikers.

  Nine looked up from the video. “So what? This is bullshit. Call a press conference and tell them the truth.”

  “The truth?” Greger replied with a raised eyebrow. “That you allowed a half dozen students to escape and that they caused chaos? That is already out there.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I look like a dummy, Earth Garde reviews my performance, knows that they need me more than I need them, blah, blah blah—this blows over.” Nine stared down his nose at Greger. “The truth I’m talking about is that my students were attacked by some psychos and a mind controller. That video paints them as criminals, but they were acting in self-defense.”

  “Ah, that truth,” Greger replied, stroking his chin. “That is a bit more problematic. It would involve Earth Garde admitting that there are rogue Garde out there, ones we can’t actually control. This incident getting out is already quite the PR nightmare. We don’t need to add to it.”

  “PR nightmare,” Malcolm repeated, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Makes me pine for the days of Mogadorian warships.”

  “What is going to happen to us?” Ran spoke up at last, all three of the administrators turning in her direction. “Kopano and me. What will happen?”

  “That, Ms. Takeda, is a very good question,” Greger replied.

  “You’re sure that we’re ready for this?” Nigel asked.

  Caleb looked up as he eased a bass guitar into its case. He didn’t hear Nigel talk like that often, his voice devoid of its customary brashness. He couldn’t help but smile.

  “You’re nervous,” Caleb observed.

  “Nah, mate,” Nigel replied quickly. He sipped daintily at the cup of tea he’d microwaved for himself—good for the vocal cords, he claimed. “I just thought we agreed we weren’t going out for this dumb monkey-show thing.”

  A pack of Caleb’s clones made a racket at the back of the room, dismantling a drum set and transferring it onto a dolly. They were on one of the dormitory’s uninhabited floors, in the room they’d converted into a makeshift rehearsal space. Caleb wouldn’t necessarily have described their band as good. They’d only been practicing together for a month and Caleb didn’t have any prior experience with the drums, the keyboard, or the bass guitar—all instruments he was expected to play.

  He had been practicing, though. Well, his clones had been practicing. Caleb multitasked. He often found himself sending one of his duplicates up here to work with an instrument while Caleb himself remained stuck in a classroom or doing chores. It was a strain, but totally worth it.

  They knew three songs, all of them pretty simple. Nigel had picked them out based on some metric he came up with—ease of learning versus badassness. None of them were longer than three minutes and all of them contained ample opportunities for Nigel to scream.

  “It has to be tonight,” Caleb said. “We aren’t going to get another chance.”

  “What? How do you figure?”

  Caleb sighed and snapped the clasps closed on the guitar case. He straightened up and looked at Nigel.

  “I’m leaving,” he said. “Getting sent to Earth Garde.”

  Nigel practically spit out a mouthful of tea. “Come again?”

  “Uncle Clarence told me over Christmas,” Caleb said. “Apparently, I’ll be leaving in the next few days.”

  “You’ve been back for like a week,” Nigel replied. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  Caleb shrugged and bent down, pretending to dust off the guitar case.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it.”

  “You planned to just disappear into the night, then? Without telling any of us?” Nigel set down his tea and came closer, putting a hand on Caleb’s shoulder. “I know we weren’t always tight, but you’re one of us. We care about you, brother.”

  “I know,” Caleb replied. “I—”

  The duplicates stopped what they were doing and swooped in, wrapping up both Nigel and Caleb in a group hug.

  “Ugh, get a hold of yourselves,” Nigel complained, laughing. When he could breathe again, his mouth screwed up in thought. “You know, you don’t have to let them enlist you. We’re on
to something here. The work we’re doing with Nine and the others seems like it’s just as important as any Earth Garde mission. That twat Greger is always trying to promote Ran. She keeps refusing to use her powers so he doesn’t.”

  Caleb shot a look at his duplicates, who had gone back to breaking down the drum kit.

  “I don’t know. Not using my Legacy . . .” Caleb scratched the back of his neck. “Probably wouldn’t be healthy for me.”

  “Yeah, good point,” Nigel admitted.

  “Besides, my uncle, he was being pretty weird about stuff. I almost got the sense that he was feeling me out about the Foundation.”

  Nigel’s eyebrows shot up. “Feeling you out like he wants to take them down too or like he’s one of them?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know, but I don’t think my uncle is the type to work with them. He’s too . . . he’s . . .”

  “He’s got too big a stick up his ass,” Nigel said.

  “Exactly. He danced around actually telling me anything. Probably worried about compromising top secret intel.” Caleb shrugged. “So I didn’t tell him anything either.”

  “Good lad.”

  “He mentioned Wade Sydal, though. Like I might get assigned to do something for him. And, since his name has popped up in our investigation, I figure maybe I should go along with it. See what I can find out and report back to you guys.”

  Nigel rubbed his pockmarked cheek in thought. “Better than sitting around here waiting for the Foundation to make a move,” he said at last.

  “Yeah,” Caleb replied.

  “But you’ve gotta tell the others,” Nigel said.

  “I will, I will,” Caleb replied. He looked around at the duplicates, who were done with the packing and now stared blankly into space, awaiting further orders. “So . . . guess we’ve got a talent show to get to.”

  “Let’s melt some faces, mates.”