by Ellery Kane
I turned toward Quin and leaned my head against his chest. With his arms snug around me, the warmth of the sun on my face, all I could hear was the relentless thump of his heart.
There wasn’t a word for it, that feeling—any feeling really. Not just one. There was no joy without sorrow, no courage without fear, no hope without regret, no love without loss. For once, I didn’t try to have one without the other. I felt everything.
Coming Soon
Want more of the Legacy Trilogy? You’re in luck. AWOL, a prequel novella narrated by Quin McAllister is coming soon. If you would like to receive a notification when AWOL is released, please sign up for Ellery Kane’s newsletter at www.ellerykane.com.
Acknowledgements
Fifteen months and almost 800 pages later, I owe a tremendous debt. To the readers who discovered, read, reviewed, and fell in love with the Legacy Trilogy.
To my editor, Ann Castro, and the team at AnnCastro Studios for fostering my growth as a writer and polishing these books until they shined.
And to Gar. If you want to know if someone loves you, then doggedly-obsessively-passionately-crazily pursue your dream. If he cheers you on, even in the midst of your insanity, you got lucky. If he talks plot with you for hours; censors all your bad reviews; reads your books almost as many times as you have; sits with you on the side of the street for two days straight peddling your books to strangers; and lives this and every adventure with you, page by glorious-awful-terrifying-fantastic page…then you won the lottery. And I did.
WARNING: AWOL is the prequel to the Legacy trilogy and should not be read before the first book in the series. Reading out of order will result in extreme spoilers—proceed with caution.
Author’s recommended reading order:
Legacy
Prophecy
Revelation
AWOL
We all have a space inside us that we keep hidden from the world, a space that we protect at all costs. So many people have allowed me a glimpse inside theirs—dark deeds, memories best unrecalled, pain that cracks from the inside out—without expectation of anything in return. This book is for them.
“The past beats inside me like a second heart.”
—John Banville, The Sea
PROLOGUE
Red. Everything is red. His voice is a screaming train. I cover my ears, put my head down. If I don’t look, maybe it will go away. This has happened before, but it’s different this time. Worse.
Be a good boy. A big boy. You’re six years old now. Take care of your brother. Don’t cry.
I don’t yell. I don’t run. And I definitely don’t cry. I spin the wheels on the little yellow truck, and my brother watches them. I’m a good boy. A big boy. When the screaming stops, I know something’s wrong. It’s too quiet. He’s never this quiet. My stomach hurts, but I stand up anyway and walk to the doorway. The telephone’s broken. It’s all I can hear.
beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep
I stop before I get there, afraid of what I can’t see. There’s no such thing as monsters. That’s what my mom says, when she looks down into the dark cave under my bed. I open my mouth and try to call her, but my voice doesn’t work. Scaredy-cat. Baby. Sissy. That’s what my dad would say. Before he sees me, I turn around and walk back to my brother. I spin the wheels on the little yellow truck. And the thought comes like it always does. It’s all my fault.
Since I stopped taking Emovere, it’s the same dream every night. But it’s not just a dream. It’s also a memory. I’m six years old again, and everything is red. His voice is razor wire. Hers is a bleating lamb. Together, they make the music of my own private hell. I jolt awake. Pulse races. Eyes pop open wide. Breath comes in short gasps. All the signs are there, so I wait for it. I expect to feel something, anything. But I feel nothing. Less than nothing. If they cut me open, pried apart my ribs, and fished inside my chest, I know what they’d find. A frozen caveman heart, extremely well preserved, in a cavity of constant, cold, hard ice.
CHAPTER ONE
March 29, 2040
I slumbered with your poems on my breast
Spread open as I dropped them half-read through
Like dove wings on a figure on a tomb
To see, if in a dream they brought of you …
—Robert Frost, To E.T.
From the window in my room, I can see the city. Okay—truth—it’s not much of a window. It’s more of a hole I carved with a screwdriver I swiped from the supply closet. While the other soldiers were sleeping, I whittled through the brick until I could feel the biting cold air rush in off the water. It smells like salt and freedom.
If I squint, I can see the lights of San Francisco through it. Two weeks have passed since the evacuation, but those lights are still unbelievably bright, still glimmering. They remind me of stars—somehow close and far away at the same time. But those lights may as well be in another country. Another planet even. This is the view from Alcatraz. From Guardian Force headquarters. It’s the view of a prisoner. And that’s what I am.
I reach under my mattress and find the book. I let my hand rest on its warm, well-worn cover. That book is essential. Without it, I’m exactly who they want me to be. Legacy 243. Without it, I’m just like my dad. Barely human. If they caught me with it, they’d take it away. General Ryker says the best soldiers remove all distractions. He also says I’m one of the best.
So I leave the book hidden and remove the letter instead. I read it again, even though I know I shouldn’t. It’s like a hot coal beneath a fire, a touchstone of rage. Every word burns. And that’s why I like it. It makes me feel.
Dear Mr. McAllister,
This is to confirm that you requested your release from the Guardian Force on 1/5/40, 2/2/40, and 3/1/40. Unfortunately, your requests have been denied based on the terms of your contract. This letter serves as a reminder of your agreement of confidentiality with regard to all matters related to your service in the Guardian Force. Any breach of this agreement is a federal offense and—
“McAllister!” I roll my eyes and refold the paper, burying it again, just as the door opens. I didn’t even get to the good part. That last sentence—the one where Ryker wishes me continued success as a Guardian—that’s the one that really does the trick. I sit up, swing my legs over the side of the bunk, and push off, landing a boot’s length away from Greenhorn 333, Oliver Cabot.
“What?” The word fires like a spear, more pointed than I intend. Not that it matters. We’re all numb here. “What do you want, Ollie?”
He points to the door, then flops on the bunk beneath mine. “We’ve got first watch, right?”
I nod. “It’s only twenty hundred hours. Relax.”
“I’m totally relaxed, dude.” Ollie puts his hands behind his head and kicks off his unlaced boots. Like mine, his feet hang over the edge of the bed. Ollie calls the bunks Ryker-sized. Not to his face, of course. “Napoleon wants to see you.”
Despite my reflexive revulsion, I smirk. “Napoleon,” I repeat, chuckling a little. “Great.” I zip the front of my uniform and take a quick glance in the mirror. I run my hand over my head—newly shaven since I completed my last mission. I miss my hair. With it gone, I can’t help but look at my eyes. They look more like my father’s every day. As dead as a knife’s blade. Further evidence I’m becoming him. And Ryker—Napoleon—calls that success? “Wonder what he wants.”
Ollie shrugs. “Probably the usual. You know … You’re amazing, Legacy 243.” He mimics Ryker’s throaty bark with astounding accuracy, and I can’t help but laugh. “You’re a hero, 243. Everybody wants to be you, 243.”
“Take a little more Emovere, 243,” I add, humorlessly. Ollie stops talking. He’s the only one who knows they’ve been upping my dose since January, after I nearly balked during my first special assignment. I’m not even sure why I told him. He’s not my friend. I don’t use that word anymore. Not since Max and Elana were dismissed. Ryker says friends are liabilities
. And for once, I agree with him. Wherever they are, they’re better off without me.
“I’ll meet you at the lab,” I say, strapping on my service weapon and bulldozing out the door before he can reply.
“You wanted to see me?” I try to sound eager. Or at a minimum, subordinate.
Without looking up from his desk, General Ryker ushers me inside with a casual flick of his wrist like he’s swatting a fly. He strokes his thick beard, then raises his eyes to mine. “Legacy 243,” he pronounces, and I almost smile thinking of Ollie’s monologue.
“Yes, sir.”
Ryker opens a small tablet I assume is my Guardian Force file. I’ve never been allowed to look inside it. Every time I would ask, Ryker spit out the same tired line: Too much information clouds a soldier’s focus. He scrolls through the pages of me, dismissing them with a whisk of his finger. “Three special missions. Unparalleled performance—just one small hiccup. Evacuation of the city three months earlier than expected—thanks to you, of course. You’re a natural.” He pauses, and I wonder if he’s waiting for me to agree. He’ll be waiting a long time for that. I’ve never felt more unnatural.
I open my mouth to ask him what I’m doing here, but he slides an envelope across the table, silencing me. “Your new assignment.” He spoon-feeds me those words like they’re not laced with arsenic. My face feels hot.
“I thought you said I could take a break. I need—” I stop myself. I’m only making it worse. Maybe he’s right. This is what I’m good at. Not feeling, not caring, just following orders. I nod and take the envelope. This.
Ryker closes the tablet, slotting it inside a drawer with hundreds just like it. He stands and brushes past me, hesitating at the door. “What you need is inconsequential. You’re a soldier, not a boy, understood?”
My jaw clenches. “Yes, sir.”
He nods at the envelope. It feels alive—urgent—like a lit match in my hand. “We’ll finalize the details tomorrow. Now, I believe you have first watch to attend to.”
“Yes, sir.” I sound pathetic. Like those are the only two words I know.
I’m as far away from the lab as I can get—the Agave Trail, on the other side of the island. I know I’ll be alone here, but it’s nearly impossible to wait. By the time I take a seat on my rock, the one nearest the water, my fingers are twitching like live wires. Imaginary ants are crawling up my windpipe, pouring out my mouth, swarming across my skin. I want to claw the letter open, rip it to shreds. But I don’t. I force myself to be deliberate. Self-control is the hallmark of a soldier. Another Rykerism. Pretty ironic when he’s pumping us full of Agitor.
I’ve done this before. Three times. Three missions. Three bodies. I don’t even know their names. I breathe in slowly, sliding my finger under the envelope’s seal, breaking it with care. I unfold the paper. I read.
Dear Mr. McAllister,
Congratulations! You have been selected as a candidate for promotion to Second Lieutenant and assigned to lead a new division of the Guardian Force, the Remediation Squadron. Further details regarding your position and job duties will be disclosed at a later date. However, as with all prior missions, complete discretion is expected. We would also like to remind you of your contractual obligation to consent to the administration of Emovere and any other substances we deem relevant to the success of the Guardian Force. We thank you for your service to your country and wish you continued success as a Guardian.
Sincerely,
General Jamison Ryker
Heat. Pure heat in my chest—like my heart is on fire. It happens faster than usual. I’m a pump, already primed. To stoke the fire, I catalogue my hate.
Mrs. Lawson for saying I was the only foster kid she couldn’t love.
Her real son, Ben, for pushing me into a table and leaving this ugly scar on my shoulder.
That good-for-nothing drunk, Eddie Van Sant, and his big-shot father for telling the Guardian Force where they could find me.
Napoleon.
My dad.
Continued success. Letter balled in my hand, I slam my fist into the dirt. I’ve never made it past five. My fingers sting. My hand goes numb, but I do it again. Continued success. And again and again until the flesh on my knuckles is raw. I split the letter in two, four, eight, sixteen pieces. I watch them scatter in the wind, but it’s not good enough. I want it gone. Destroyed. I pummel the ground again until I exhaust myself with the effort. I am my father. And number six is me.
I am my father. I can’t get that thought out of my head. That must mean it’s true. The first time—the first mission—I threw up before I got out of the jeep. Puked all over my Resistance red disguise. Ryker was furious. He injected me, right then, himself. 250 more milligrams of Emovere. 500 total. When I watched my bullet slice through flesh ten minutes later, I felt hollow, like a pretend person, but disgustingly satisfied. The whole ride home all I could see was my mother’s dead face—eyes shadowed with bruises, dried blood for lipstick—even though it was impossible for me to know. The police carried six-year-old me away, never let me catch a glimpse of her, but I saw it as clear as if I killed her myself. That’s when I knew who I was becoming.
I am my father. I think it all the way to the lab even when I try to stop. I hope Ollie doesn’t ask any questions. I’m afraid I’ll blurt it out without meaning to, confess to what I really am. If it wasn’t true, Ryker would never have given me this assignment. Remediation Squadron … ha! Does he think I haven’t heard the rumors? Ollie says they’re not dismissing recruits anymore. They’re flat out murdering them with a bullet to the head. It’s a death squad, and he picked me to lead it.
“So?” Ollie’s already asking. “What did he want?” It doesn’t help that I’m five minutes late for first watch.
I don’t answer, and he knows better than to ask again. He looks at my hand, then away, but his face stays blank. “I’ll make the inside rounds,” he says, mercifully, leaving me out here alone to circle the lab on foot.
Follow protocol. Focus. These are the things I tell myself, while I train my flashlight on the fence line, checking the links for damage, loose spots. It’s secure, as usual. No one’s getting in here. No one’s even trying. That fence is meant for us.
A gull watches me from its perch between the razor wire. It lets out a scream, like it knows something about me, and takes flight. I wish I was that bird, gliding like a ghost in the darkness. It circles, then returns and lands just inside the fence. Follow protocol, Quin. I’m standing here like a fool, staring off, when I’m supposed to be patrolling the lab. I should’ve been done by now. Ollie will be looking for me. But that bird. Beady-eyed, it hops toward me. I freeze, half-expecting it to open its beak and speak to me in Ryker’s voice. Get back to work, 243.
“McAllister? Is that you?” Startled by Ollie, the gull stretches its wings and careens upward, narrowly missing my head. It cries out again. This time I know what it’s saying. I know what I have to do.
I practice my speech on the way. I already know I’m in trouble. I left Ollie alone with no backup, no explanation. I can’t do this assignment. I won’t do it. You’ve got the wrong guy. I’m unstable. Unhinged. I’ll say whatever I have to. Whatever works. Besides, it’s true.
I follow the dirt path, retracing my steps, past the Agave Trail to Building 64. We call it the Lion’s Den. The officers live here, and I’ve never been inside. None of us have. The soldier stationed out front gives me a look that’s meant to stop me, to warn me I’m where I’m not supposed to be. Without thinking, I push past him, but I feel him on my heels.
“I need to speak to General Ryker.”
He laughs at me, shoving me from behind. “Aye, aye, Captain Grunt. Let me get right on that. Hey, Colonel, this grunt—what’s your name?—”
My rage is still close to the surface. I push it back down. “Legacy 243. Quin McAllister.”
“Grunt 243 wants to talk to Ryker.”
Colonel Anton Maze is chest to chest with me. He looks at me like I’
m roadkill. Disgusting. Something to be pitied. His mouth twists in a smirk. “243? He’s no grunt. He’s up for promotion.” He slaps my back, but I can tell it’s an act. “Congratulations.” Then he whispers. “You’re Napoleon’s pet project … his little lab rat.”
I’m momentarily stunned. Ollie always says Maze and Ryker are as thick as thieves.
“What’s going on out here?” General Ryker stomps out from the shadows, and Maze slinks away from me, red-faced. The sight of the General—swallowed by his PT uniform—startles me. He’s practically swimming in a gray Guardian Force T-shirt. But when he sets his eyes of steel on me, he grows in size. “Legacy 243, did you leave your post?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“I need to talk to you.”
His raised brows condemn me long before he opens his mouth. “Is that an acceptable reason to leave your post?”
“No, sir.” By now, a small crowd has gathered. They’re all staring at me. “But it couldn’t wait.”
“Well, then, it better be good.”
“It’s about my promotion. I can’t accept it.” There. I said it.
Ryker points at the door. “Get out.” I don’t move fast enough. He grabs me, commandeers me, steers me outside, and slams the door shut behind us.
“General Ryker, sir, I respectfully decline the position. The Remediation Squadron … it’s … barbaric.” He recoils, like I backhanded him.
“Barbaric? The Remediation Squadron is a necessity. The herd must be culled, as they say. And frankly, we can’t afford to lose any more of our recruits to the Resistance. Would you rather they steal all of our intelligence? Know all of our secrets? I thought we were on the same side, 243. After all, I reviewed your file—I selected you for this position. Even before we gave you Emovere, you had the lowest empathy scores in your recruitment class. Did you know that? You were at the 5th percentile. A regular psychopath. If the Remediation Squadron is barbaric, then we need a barbarian in charge. Trust me. You’re the right man for the job.”
