Fugitive Six

by Pittacus Lore

  She only panicked a little bit, when she realized that she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t need to breathe, though. She was air. Still, not having those functions we take for granted, not really having a body—it messed with her mind.

  And then they were on the beach, twenty miles north of the Academy. It was dark and she was human again, on her hands and knees, gasping for breath and trying not to throw up from the dizziness. She spit in the sand, panting.

  “You okay?” Miki asked. He stood a few feet away, looking windblown but mostly unruffled.

  “God, a little warning would’ve been nice.”

  “I did warn you.”

  “A little more warning.”

  “Sorry,” Miki replied. “I know it’s tough to get used to. And I don’t get to practice very often, since I’m not allowed to show the instructors.”

  Taylor sat in the sand catching her breath and looked up at him, trying to get a read. He caught her watching and frowned.

  “So how did you play Dr. Linda?” he asked.

  Taylor’s hands tensed. “What do you mean?”

  “I know she buys into that act you’ve been doing since you guys got back,” Miki replied. “But . . . I’m the wind, you know? I’ve been through every air duct in the Academy. I saw your guys’ dope underground hideout.”

  Taylor swallowed. She got up slowly and squared up with Miki. He was a master at telekinesis and could probably carry her out to sea and drop her with his weird wind Legacy. But if she had to fight, she would.

  “Easy,” he said, holding up his hands. “I haven’t told anyone. And I won’t. The Foundation’s got something on me, but I’m not on their side.”

  Taylor stared at him, incredulous. “If you knew about us, if you aren’t against them—why didn’t you tell us? We could help you. You could help us.”

  Miki gazed out at the ocean. “Obviously I don’t trust them, but tonight’s the first time they actually asked me to do something. Called me on a cell phone they smuggled in for me, told me it was urgent I helped you escape. I figured your plan had finally worked.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  Miki shrugged. “I didn’t want to approach you guys until . . . well, until I was sure you could actually stop them. No offense.”

  Taylor pursed her lips. “Some offense taken.”

  Out on the ocean, a small boat’s light broke the inky darkness. It blinked three times, went dark for a few seconds, then blinked three more times.

  “That’s your ride,” Miki said.

  Taylor shook her head silently. About thirty minutes had gone by since she first broke into Dr. Linda’s house. The Foundation had arranged this extraction in less time than it took to cook a pizza.

  Miki held out his hand. “I’ll fly you out there, if you’re up for it.”

  “Better than swimming,” Taylor replied, trying to recapture some of the badass energy that had gotten her this far. It wasn’t easy—this was really happening. She was returning to the Foundation. She nervously took Miki’s hand.

  “Seriously, good luck,” he told her. “I hope you take these bastards down.”

  Whatever response Taylor might have made, it was swallowed up in the wind.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ISABELA SILVA

  THE HUMAN GARDE ACADEMY—POINT REYES, CALIFORNIA

  ISABELA SILVA DID NOT THINK OF HERSELF AS A hero. Hell no.

  She knew some of her friends thought of themselves that way. Kopano, Taylor, and Nigel for sure. Ran, probably, even if she was too much of a wannabe pacifist to say so. Caleb, well, he probably didn’t know what to think about himself, that was his whole deal. Anyway, although they didn’t admit it, she knew that her friends thought of themselves as the second coming of the Loric Garde. They were a small group fighting against a powerful enemy in a secret conflict, their lives and potentially the fate of humanity on the line. Professor Nine, the big idiot, he encouraged this thinking with his secret hideout and special training.

  Isabela couldn’t give a shit. The Foundation were bad people, sure. The Harvesters were about the worst pieces of human garbage she’d ever met. And given enough time and less supervision, Isabela was certain more of her fellow Garde would turn rotten like that Einar guy.

  Point being, Isabela knew the world was full of bad people. It was never not going to be full of bad people. Her friends thought they could make a difference and that was cute, but Isabela knew it would never happen. There would always be a next battle, a next bad guy.

  So, if she was so cynical, why was she hiding in the bushes alongside Dr. Linda’s house, keeping a lookout?

  For starters, it was less boring than sitting in her room doing homework.

  But also, for the same reason she’d kept hanging around the rest of the Fugitive Six, even though their last adventure got her shot. They were her friends. Isabela might have been a cynic, but she was also loyal.

  In the shadows outside Linda’s house, Isabela let her mask slip. She touched the leathery ripples of her burn-scarred cheek. They’d seen this face, her true face—and they didn’t judge. They accepted her.

  So, she would accept their silly hero fantasies and help them not get themselves killed. At least it made life exciting.

  Movement. Someone was leaving Dr. Linda’s. Isabela cut short her reverie, rolled her eyes at her own self-reflection, and quickly shape-shifted back into her unscarred form.

  It was the psychiatrist herself. Alone. Isabela scowled. Had their plan worked? Dr. Linda walked down the path that led out of the faculty village, towards the administration building. Linda had told Isabela—when she was in the guise of Nine—that she would go there to help search for Taylor.

  She couldn’t let Linda go talk to the real Nine, not until Taylor had made contact with the Foundation. But Taylor was still inside. Was she supposed to wait there or . . . ?

  “Merda,” Isabela grumbled. They should’ve worked this out better.

  Isabela ducked out of her hiding spot and decided to follow Dr. Linda. She jogged between cottages, running parallel to Linda, getting ahead of her. She didn’t want to get noticed by any of the security cameras. She picked a shadowy spot between two cottages and waited for Linda to catch up.

  “Dr. Linda,” Isabela hissed. “Boa noite.”

  The little woman practically jumped out of her skin. Isabela hid her smirk. They’d been hard on her tonight, breaking into her house and then sneaking up on her. She had it coming.

  “Isabela,” Linda kept her voice down, inching off the path to come closer. She played it cool. “It’s after curfew. Why are you up?”

  “Where’s Taylor?” Isabela replied bluntly. “Are you going to help her escape?”

  Isabela knew how to play this game of lies. Their original story was that Earth Garde was sending Taylor away. It made sense that Isabela would know about that, but she didn’t let on that she knew Linda was part of the Foundation.

  “I . . .” Linda glanced back towards her house, not sure how much she should say. “It’s taken care of.”

  “What does that mean?”

  A sudden breeze blew in between them. Something on Dr. Linda jingled. The woman was holding her car keys. So, she wasn’t going to see Nine after all. She was fleeing.

  “Taylor will be fine,” Dr. Linda replied, trying to find her authoritative voice. “I had . . . a friend of mine is getting her off campus.”

  “What friend? You don’t have any friends.”

  Dr. Linda pinched the bridge of her nose. “Please, Isabela. Go back to your room. Forget we had this conversation.”

  Isabela craned her neck back towards Linda’s cabin. Was there someone else there? Someone who would get Taylor out? Another Foundation lackey?

  “Who is your friend?” Isabela asked. “What if I want to go too? Will they take me?”

  “Isabela, no. Enough,” Linda replied firmly. “Go back to your room or I’ll call security.”

  “No, you won’t.”<
br />
  They stared at each other. Linda’s gaze didn’t seem so penetrating out here in the night. Isabela made sure to keep her knowing smile on, even as her mind raced. Should she let Linda go? What happened to Taylor? Who was coming to get her and how would they get off campus?

  “Isabela, you need to answer me honestly.” Isabela noticed the therapist’s voice shaking, not with anger but with fear. “I remember how you won those silly Wargames. Was that . . . was that you before? Pretending to be Nine?”

  As gifted a liar as Isabela was, Dr. Linda was still a woman who read people’s emotions for a living. Just the slightest hesitation from Isabela gave Linda her answer.

  “Oh no,” she said, and took a sharp step forward. “Do the two of you know what you’ve done? The danger you’re toying with?”

  Before Isabela could respond, a flashlight beam swept across the nearby path. A single Peacekeeper strolled along there, doing one of the checks that had become routine since the Fugitive Six last snuck off campus.

  Isabela grabbed Linda by the arm and pulled her back the way she’d come, through the shadows. Linda came willingly—she didn’t want to be caught out here any more than Isabela did. They made it to her doorstep just ahead of the Peacekeeper’s flashlight and Isabela used the access card from Nine to let them in. Linda was breathing hard; Isabela hoped that she wasn’t having a heart attack.

  “Taylor?” Isabela called out as she closed the door behind her and shoved Linda onto the couch.

  No response. Her friend was gone. Somehow, the Foundation had whisked her away in the space of a few minutes.

  She rounded on Dr. Linda. “Where did they take her?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know how they took her.” Linda looked bewildered and exhausted, her frizzy hair a mess. “What are you two trying to accomplish?”

  Isabela snapped her fingers in Linda’s face. “I ask questions, not you.” She glared at Linda until the woman gave a meek nod. “Where were you going just now?”

  “Thanks to your ruse, I was going to meet Nine—”

  Isabela’s nostrils flared. “No point in lying, estúpido. Everyone knows you are a Foundation spy. They’ve known for weeks, only keeping you around to see what you might give away. Soon you will be arrested.”

  “I—the Foundation made—”

  Isabela took a menacing step forward. “Where were you going?”

  “To meet with—I suppose you would call him my handler. I don’t know his name. He’s who I give the information to. He likely wants to know what happened here tonight.”

  “Where were you to meet him?”

  Linda handed Isabela an address scratched onto a torn corner of a crossword puzzle. Isabela wiggled her fingers.

  “Car keys, too.”

  There were other ways to infiltrate the Foundation besides letting them recruit you. Isabela wasn’t about to let Taylor go on this mission all by herself.

  Fifteen minutes later, Isabela drove Dr. Linda’s hybrid hatchback through the faculty parking lot towards the Peacekeeper checkpoint at the Academy’s exit. Besides the car keys and the address, Isabela had also swiped Linda’s ID card and satellite phone. She left the psychiatrist gagged and tied up on her bed. By the time anyone found her, Isabela would be long gone.

  She looked at herself in the rearview mirror. Her skin wrinkled and pale, her hair a bushy gray rat’s nest.

  “I am a smart lady,” Isabela said, mimicking Dr. Linda’s pretentious way of enunciating. “Tell me about your earliest memory. That is enough for today. Freud. Zoloft. Nocturnal emission.”

  Good enough, she decided.

  Isabela pulled up to the gate. A Peacekeeper emerged from the booth, stern and middle-aged, not one of the ones Isabela had encountered in her previous forays off campus.

  “ID,” he said flatly.

  Isabela handed him Linda’s ID and he swiped it through a card reader. She waited, tapping her foot anxiously against the floor. The Peacekeeper turned the tablet around so the screen faced her, an image of an eye there overlaid with a blue graph matrix.

  “Retinal scan,” he said.

  “Ah, yes,” Isabela replied. That was new. Her heartbeat picked up. Did her shape-shifting accurately copy that level of detail? She’d never thought to find out.

  “Can’t sleep again, huh?” The Peacekeeper said conversationally as her eye was scanned.

  So Linda had made late-night excursions from the Academy before. What would she say?

  “If the crosswords do not work, I find long drives soothe the overactive mind,” Isabela said as properly as she could manage.

  “More of a sudoku guy myself,” the Peacekeeper replied.

  His tablet beeped. Not a good beep. It was the kind of sound a computer made when an error popped up.

  “Inexact match,” the Peacekeeper said with a sigh.

  “Maybe I blinked,” Isabela replied.

  “Thing can be tricky,” he said, handing back her ID. “Whatever. Could have you here until sunup waiting for the tech to work.”

  He reached for a button behind him and opened up the gate. Isabela gave him a warm smile, then drove through. Never underestimate the power of a middle-aged white woman to escape scrutiny.

  Isabela drove into the night. She put the address she’d taken from Dr. Linda into the car’s GPS. Then, she found a dance music station on the car radio and rolled down the windows. Yes, this was a potentially dangerous situation and yes, she was currently disguised as an old woman with a very crappy car—that didn’t mean she couldn’t exert a little style as she cruised south on the mostly abandoned coastal highways south of the Academy.

  It didn’t hit her until the wind blew through her hair how much she had missed these excursions off campus and the freedom that came with them. She used to do this all the time before the administration got wise, sometimes by herself and sometimes with her former boy toy Lofton, stealing an identity and a car, then driving south to San Francisco to party for a night.

  This was serious, Isabela reminded herself.

  Still, now that she knew how the Academy’s “upgraded” security protocols worked, she would have to sneak out more often.

  The address Dr. Linda had was for a surf shop in Sausalito. The quaint shoreline town was quiet as Isabela drove through its hillsides, hardly any other cars on the road. In the distance, through a thin sheet of fog, Isabela could see the inviting glow of the Golden Gate Bridge. She’d been here before but never stopped, breezing through on her way to San Francisco. It was only an hour south of the Academy. So the Foundation thought they could set up that close without trouble.

  The dinky surf shop was in a strip mall close to the shore, sandwiched between an organic juice bar and a skate park. The parking lot was empty. Isabela pulled in and waited, turning the station to some dull classical crap before she did. She tried to look as uptight and nervous as possible, just in case Linda’s Foundation contact was already here and watching from nearby.

  She didn’t have to wait long. A bloodred muscle car soon prowled into the lot, its engine like a jungle cat. Even if it hadn’t been dark, the car’s windows were tinted, so Isabela had no way of discerning who was inside.

  “Nice car,” she murmured as the Camaro pulled alongside Linda’s crappy ride.

  Isabela sat behind the wheel and waited, not sure what the protocol was for her psychiatrist’s clandestine meetings with members of an international conspiracy.

  After about a minute of stalemate, the passenger door to the other car was shoved open by the driver. An invitation.

  Isabela got out and shuffled to the Camaro, doing her best to look stooped and nervous.

  “Linda, you know I don’t like to be kept waiting,” a man chided as Isabela climbed awkwardly into the bucket seat. “You come to me. I don’t go to you.”

  The Camaro driver was in his thirties, dark-haired and stubbly, with thick lashes that made it look like he was wearing eyeliner and a face just a bit too angular to be actu
ally handsome, although he probably would’ve argued that point. Isabela knew his type. He reminded her of a certain drug dealer back in Rio who used to haunt the clubs and hit on underage girls. He wore an expensive leather jacket. His car smelled like coconut air freshener and cigarettes.

  “Sorry,” Isabela said quietly. “Difficult night.”

  The man snorted. “Oh, was it difficult for you? You call me up in a panic, tell me we need to get the Cook girl out tonight and then—what did you do? Did you pull strings and call in favors to make that happen? Was that you? Or was it me?”

  “You,” Isabela replied.

  “Right. And, lucky for you, that operation was successful. So, congratulations. You finally did something halfway useful.”

  After weeks of planning, Taylor was in. Isabela suppressed a smile.

  “I have to ask, Linda—”

  The man half turned so he was facing Isabela directly, angling his head so she was forced to look in his eyes.

  “Were you compromised? You said on the phone—Cook knows you’re working for us. Does anyone else? How big a mess did you make there tonight?”

  Isabela pretended to consider his question. “I was careful.”

  “It’s okay,” the man said in a way meant to sound soothing but that Isabela could tell meant it definitely would not be okay. “If you messed up, we can protect you.”

  “Oh, really? Will you spirit me away? Will you make me therapist of all the children you’ve stolen?”

  The driver looked at her funny. “Don’t get mouthy, Linda.”

  “What happens if I’m found out, hmm?” She pointed at a bulge in the man’s jacket that was clearly a concealed weapon. “That? You dump me in a ditch somewhere?”

  “I—”

  “And what happens if you’re compromised, cabrão?”

  Isabela waited a split second to see the alarm dawn on the man’s face. She loved that moment. Then, with her telekinesis, she looped his seat belt around his neck and pulled tight.

  “Gah—!” The driver clawed at his neck with one hand and reached for his gun with the other. Isabela’s hand shot out, grabbed his thumb and twisted until she heard a pop.