Fugitive Six

by Pittacus Lore

  There was a brief moment of pure satisfaction as Einar doubled over and fell to his knees, simultaneously gasping and retching. But then, Five slammed Isabela up against a wall, knocking the wind out of her. Isabela’s feet were lifted off the ground, Five’s forearm pressed into her throat. She tried to jab at his pressure points, but his skin was suddenly made completely of metal and she only succeeded in jamming her fingers. There were gulfs in his metal carapace, though—the dark patches of skin that looked like tumors remained unchanged. Even gasping for breath, Isabela couldn’t bring herself to touch them.

  “Five . . . ,” Einar wheezed. “That’s enough. You’ll hurt her.”

  “She runs her mouth worse than Nine!” Five yelled back, his breath hot against Isabela’s face.

  Isabela started to see spots in her vision. She pried uselessly at Five’s metal fingers. With a roar, he let her go. Isabela slid down the wall and, above her, Five punched the wall where her head used to be. Wham, wham, wham—like a hammer striking an anvil.

  “Put me out,” Five snarled at Einar. “I don’t want to feel like this.”

  Einar didn’t say anything, didn’t do anything that Isabela could see, but a moment later Five swayed on his feet. Isabela breathed raggedly, staring up at the imposing Loric. The bloodlust—so vivid in his remaining eye a moment ago—had seeped out of him.

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry,” Five said. “I lose my temper sometimes.”

  Isabela could only cough in response. Five’s eye was half-lidded and spacy, like he’d been tranquilized. Before she could do anything, the big bastard sank to the floor beside Isabela. He ended up with his head in her lap and Isabela was too horrified by the whole scene to stop him.

  “If anything should prove my newfound restraint . . .” Einar paused to cough and wipe tears from his eyes, looking at Isabela across the narrow space. “It’s that I’m willing to let what you just did go.”

  “You tried to kill my friends,” Isabela replied, her voice raspy.

  “I regret that,” Einar replied. “I wasn’t in my right mind. But, in my defense, your ‘friend’ Nigel is probably a spy for the Foundation.”

  Isabela snorted. “What?”

  “His mother, Bea, is one of them,” Einar continued. “One of the important ones.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “His father, too. I can show you proof when I’m able to walk again.”

  “Nigel’s dad just died. There was a fire at his house after the funeral. Him and his mom are missing.”

  “Ah, well, the fire is probably Bea’s way of trying to throw me off her scent. I had nothing to do with that,” Einar replied, holding her gaze. “As for Mr. Barnaby? Well. They wanted a war with me.”

  Isabela’s mouth fell open. Had this crazy bastard just admitted to killing Nigel’s father? Was she supposed to let that go? Part of her wanted to lunge at him again, even though she knew it would likely be futile.

  “What were you doing posing as Alejandro?” Einar asked before Isabela could gather her thoughts.

  “What were you doing trying to kill him?” Isabela countered.

  “Duanphen, the third member of our revolution, she has an injured leg—”

  “Boo-hoo,” Isabela interrupted. “My whole body hurts from that car crash, thanks to you assholes. So what?”

  “We’d learned that the Foundation planned to acquire your friend Taylor again,” Einar continued over her. “Alejandro was in charge of that effort. We thought that he could be . . . convinced . . . to get us close to Taylor.”

  Isabela snorted. “You think she would help you? She hates you. We all hate you.”

  “I know Taylor wouldn’t let someone suffer,” Einar said. “The Foundation’s reports said she was fed up with the Academy. If she was so desperate to return to the Foundation, I thought she should know there was a third option. Us.”

  “You idiot,” Isabela said, with a disbelieving laugh. “We were infiltrating the Foundation. Not to just—just randomly kill them, but to bring them to justice.”

  Einar smiled at her indulgently. “Come on, Isabela. I’ve read your psyche profile. You’re no crusader. These people are too powerful. You know there won’t be justice for them unless we bring it to them.”

  Isabela shifted uncomfortably, and not just because Five was practically snoring in her lap. She was used to being the one reading people and didn’t much care to be on the opposite side.

  “There’s no we,” Isabela replied sharply. “Now. Are we done talking? Can you drop me off somewhere?”

  “Back at your Academy, maybe?” Einar replied. “Where you’re trained to use your powers for the greater good, so long as the greater good lines up with the agenda of whoever is in charge?”

  “Better than this shithole spaceship,” Isabela countered.

  “These are humble beginnings,” Einar replied.

  Isabela started to reply but let out a shriek instead. Five had grabbed her hand. So violent just moments ago, now he was like a child. Isabela felt a tickle on her palm and Five’s skin again changed to pale pink, the black splotches gone. Einar did a double take at the sight of his restored bodyguard.

  Five chuckled. “Look at me, Einar. Whole again.”

  “This is a freak show,” Isabela said. She didn’t try to pull her hand away, not wanting to upset the insane Loric.

  “He can take on the qualities of anything he touches,” Einar told Isabela. “When he touches you, he must be able to tap into the shape-shifting qualities of your skin. Usually, he can’t transform those dark scars of his. They were caused by some toxic Mogadorian chemical and—”

  “Seriously,” Isabela replied. “I don’t care.”

  “You should. He’s from a different planet, but he’s one of us. A Garde. An outsider.”

  “I’m not—”

  “And surely you can sympathize with someone wanting to restore themselves to a better state,” Einar said, staring meaningfully at Isabela’s unblemished skin.

  She glared at him. Of course, Einar kept on talking.

  “Five was the first person I sought out when the Foundation cut me loose,” he said, speaking quietly so as not to disturb the spaced-out Loric. “Of course they had a file on him. A rogue Garde with flexible morals who isn’t participating in the Earth Garde initiative? They always planned to recruit him. But I got there first.”

  “And mind controlled him,” Isabela said flatly.

  “Only when he asks me to,” Einar replied. “He has demons. Anger, guilt, self-loathing. I can make him content. I can give him peace. He’s trying to do better. We both are.”

  Isabela gazed down at Five. She felt the tiniest kernel of sympathy, though it was crushed by a metric ton of revulsion.

  “Seems like therapy and smoking pot would be simpler,” she said.

  Einar smirked. “He was hidden away on an island, unaware of what has been going on in the world. I told him about Earth Garde and the Foundation. How the other Loric do so little to help us, merely delaying the inevitable battle with humanity, letting the powerless majority subjugate us in the meantime. I told him what the Foundation is after . . .”

  “What are they after?”

  “Something the Mogadorians were working on. Technology that could even the playing field with their biggest adversary. Us. Unlike those other coddled Academy kids, the six of you who broke out—you’ve seen it. What the world is like outside Professor Nine’s protection. Where we’re heading.”

  A chill went down Isabela’s spine. She told herself that Einar was probably tweaking her emotions, making her receptive to his ominous stories. But at the same time, there was an intensity to the way he talked that pulled her in.

  “I know how we look,” Einar continued. She watched fractures form in his calm and calculated mask—genuine passion seeping through. “Like we’re insane, right? But that’s what happens when they force you to live on the fringes. You’re observant—I’m sure you saw the money room when Five brought you her
e. We’ve already acquired over three million dollars from the Foundation. We’re going to build something. A place where we can be free. Where we don’t have to answer to anyone. How does that sound, Isabela?”

  “It sounds good,” Isabela admitted. “If only you weren’t the one saying it.”

  Einar nodded, a hint of a smile on his lips. She’d conceded that his ideas sounded good and he must’ve viewed that as a small victory. Isabela thought about kicking him in the balls again.

  “I appreciate that I’ll have to earn your trust,” Einar said. “Tell me, when you infiltrated the Foundation, did Taylor go, too? Is that how you got to Alejandro? By letting her be recruited?”

  Isabela hesitated, not sure what she should tell him.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Einar replied. “That’s good. A brave plan. I’m honestly sorry we ruined it. Do you think she’ll be all right, without you watching out for her?”

  Isabela gritted her teeth. She could already tell where this was going.

  “Isabela,” Einar said. “I believe we can help each other.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  NIGEL BARNABY

  ENGELBERG, SWITZERLAND

  ON THE FIRST DAY, NIGEL WOKE UP WITH A SCREAM.

  There was a nurse standing over him, checking his blood pressure. Young and pretty, German-looking, her face quickly turning to a mask of horror as the decibels flying from his mouth shattered her eardrums. She stumbled backwards into a corner, covering her ears and cowering.

  “Where the fuck am I?” he asked, getting out of bed and ripping off the Velcro sleeve she’d attached to his arm.

  She couldn’t hear him. Or maybe she couldn’t understand English. Either way, she just crouched there and cried.

  “Goddamn it,” Nigel muttered, looking around. He discovered he was wearing a set of baggy flannel pajamas. The indignities never ceased.

  He was in a posh bedroom—wood-paneled, an oriental throw rug, a king-size bed behind him with silk sheets and lots of pillows. He felt well rested, despite being drugged. Whatever sedative his mom had used on him hadn’t left him with any hangover.

  Bloody hell. His own mother had drugged him. She’d had goons—those Blackstone guys he fought back in Iceland. Didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out whose side she was on. She’d killed the Peacekeepers who were supposed to watch over him and then . . . what? Set fire to his home?

  Nigel pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked at the nurse again.

  “You always think maybe your parents are a little evil, right?” he asked her, even though she stared at him uncomprehending. “But you never expect them to go full Hitler on you, eh?”

  He wanted to seem cavalier and unruffled by this sudden change in fortune because he suspected that he was being watched. There was a small camera mounted in one corner of the room. There was also a TV on the wall opposite the bed—could be a camera in there, too. Underneath the façade, though, Nigel felt like he might be sick. His own mother was some kind of evil Foundation bitch. The day of the funeral, they’d actually been getting along. For the first time since he was small enough to sit in her lap, Nigel had actually liked Bea Barnaby.

  The room reminded him of where they’d been keeping Taylor in Iceland. There was no handle on his side of the door and he got the feeling that no amount of telekinetic force would dislodge the slab of reinforced wood from its frame. He figured that the windows were probably equally impenetrable, but he at least wanted to get a look at what was outside.

  Through glass that appeared to be six inches thick, Nigel looked out at a quaint European village. He was on the fourth floor of what was probably the tallest building in this snowy hamlet. Down below, groups of people equipped for skiing moved towards the great silver mountainside at the village edge.

  “The Alps,” Nigel said. “Never been to the Alps.”

  Nigel took a deep breath. One of his favorite training activities was exploding wineglasses with high-decibel shrieks. What did Dr. Goode say? That every object on Earth had a frequency that caused it to vibrate and—if he could hit the right note—he could theoretically shatter anything? Well, maybe not anything. Nigel didn’t know. He hadn’t paid a ton of attention to the science part. He just liked breaking stuff.

  He screamed, funneling the sound towards the window so he wouldn’t further injure the poor nurse. He went as high and shrill as possible and, once, he thought the window started to vibrate. But, when he finally ran out of breath, his throat scratchy and raw, the glass was still intact. Probably wasn’t glass at all, but that blastproof plastic they used all over the Academy. His mom would be prepared.

  “Oh well, had to try,” he said with a cough. He went to the nurse and crouched over her. “Oi, sweetheart, how do you get out of here? There a key card or something? A secret knock?”

  She stared at him blankly, her lower lip quivering. Nigel’s ear prickled at a brief burst of static behind him. The TV had come on.

  “My dear, please don’t assault the help. It’s uncouth.”

  His mother was on the screen. Bea Barnaby looked well rested, a steaming mug of tea cupped in her hands. She wore a woolly sweater and her reading glasses. She looked straight ahead at Nigel, proving his theory that there was a camera in the TV.

  “Cheers, Mum,” Nigel replied, playing it cool. “Where are you?”

  “I’m right downstairs,” she answered.

  “Ah. Can I come down to see ya?”

  She smiled. “I don’t know if that’d be a good idea yet. I don’t think you’ll behave.”

  Nigel smiled back, all teeth, trying to keep control of his temper. It wouldn’t do to snap. Not yet. He needed to get some more information first and it seemed clear that his mother wanted to talk.

  “Jessa down there with you?” He’d last seen his sister after the funeral—before he was drugged, before his mother killed his bodyguards and presumably burned their bodies. Was she alive? Was she in on this?

  “She’s back in London,” his mom answered. “I sent her off to a hotel with her clod husband. Going to be a traumatic few days for her, I suppose. Losing her whole family. But I thought it best if we left her out of this.”

  “Losing her whole family . . .”

  “Papers should have it in a day or two. We burned alive. Least that’s what it’ll look like. Your friends at Earth Garde will see through that.” She shrugged. “They won’t be able to do anything about it, though.”

  “You’re a murderer,” Nigel said, thinking now of the Peacemakers. “Sit there drinking your tea and you’re a murderer.”

  “It’s not murder when you’re at war, dear,” his mom said flippantly. “And make no mistake, a war is what’s happening. A great battle for control of you and people like you.”

  Nigel stepped aside so his mom could see where the nurse still crouched in the corner of the room.

  “You want her back, you’re going to have to open the door,” he said. “Let me out, Mum. I’ll join you for tea.”

  “Her? We don’t care about her,” his mom replied. A man in black body armor passed behind her. So she had mercenaries down there, too. “In fact, she was only meant to check your vitals. She wasn’t supposed to find out what you are. We’ll have to deal with her now.”

  Nigel remembered the little girl they’d found at the cabin in Iceland, the one the Foundation had threatened to kill in order to keep Taylor in line. His skin crawled—that his own mother could be capable of something like that. How had he come from a person like that?

  “You’re sick,” Nigel said, unable to keep his voice from shaking with disgust. He’d wanted to keep his cavalier attitude intact, but now a woman’s life was at stake. “You know that, right?”

  “Individuals have the luxury of cloaking themselves in righteousness when it comes to innocent lives,” Bea said.

  “You quoting the fascist handbook now?”

  She ignored him. “Larger entities—governments, religions, corporations—they must weig
h the greater good against the survival of the innocent. You’ll come to understand that, dear.”

  “Ah, so that’s what this is? Indoctrination into the family business?”

  His mother smiled, like she was proud of his perception. “I simply want us to have an open and honest conversation. I want you to see how the world works.”

  Nigel pointed at the nurse again. “You do anything to her, I swear, that’ll be the end of it. I’ll find a way out of here. Failing that, I’ll fuckin’ off myself. You want a nice chat with sonny boy, stop killing people.”

  “Fine. I agree. She won’t be harmed,” Bea said this flippantly, like whether or not one ordered a murder was the equivalent of looking at a dessert menu. “We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

  “What—”

  Hss. A vent in the ceiling that Nigel had failed to notice opened up, emitting a rush of air. Some kind of gas. He tried to squeeze the slats shut with his telekinesis, but too late. The stuff acted quickly. He stumbled backwards and only barely managed to land lengthwise on the bed.

  “Nigel Barnaby. You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

  In the haze brought on by the gas, Nigel remembered Iceland. That’s what Einar had said right before he took control of Nigel’s emotions, brought him back to those Pepperpont days, made him walk out on the ice. Einar had looked up at one of the cameras.

  “I hope you’re watching,” he’d said.

  The psycho knew. He’d been taunting Nigel’s mother.

  After that, the death collar had mysteriously detached from the Icelandic girl, and Taylor had been allowed to return to the Academy. She’d received a bloody thank-you note.

  All because she’d saved Nigel.

  On the second day, when Nigel woke up, the nurse was gone. But, there were other additions to his room.

  The first thing Nigel noticed was that a record player had been placed next to his bed. An expensive one, glossy wood to give it that old-timey feel but with a totally digital display. A stack of records had also been arranged on the shelf beneath his nightstand. He expected the kind of stodgy crap that his parents might be into, jazz or whatever. Instead, he found a wide variety of his favorites—from the Clash all the way up to Pissed Jeans. Someone had done their research.