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“You aren’t allowed to hurt us!” someone shouted. This was true. The UN had passed a resolution that any Garde—Loric or Human—couldn’t use their Legacies against other humans, except in cases of self-defense.
With a demonstrative flick of his wrist, John Smith sent the crumpled guns flying towards the Harvesters’ vehicles. Antennas snapped, tires exploded, windshields shattered.
“I’m not hurting you, just your stuff,” John Smith told the shaken Harvesters.
Even with their faces hidden, Taylor sensed fear from the Harvesters. Many began to back away towards their damaged vehicles. They’d completely forgotten about her and her father.
John Smith floated gently to the ground.
“Lie down,” he commanded the Harvesters. “The authorities will be here soon.”
They ran.
A tremor rumbled out from where John Smith stood. It was aimed away from their house, but Taylor could still feel the reverberations. The trucks and RVs flipped over like turtles. All of the Harvesters were knocked to the ground. Some of them stayed down like John Smith commanded, but others scrambled to their feet and sprinted towards the road. She noticed the preacher hobbling off her property, a Harvester under each arm half carrying him.
Taylor stood next to her father, watching the action from the porch. She reached out and grasped his hand.
“Wow,” Brian said.
“I—I called them,” she said. “I turned myself in.”
“You saved our lives,” Brian said.
“He saved our lives,” Taylor replied. “He . . .”
Taylor trailed off when she realized John Smith was looking at her. He wasn’t pursuing the fleeing Harvesters. At first, she thought he didn’t want to leave her and her dad alone with the ones who had surrendered. But there was something about that look—he was stopped cold, staring at Taylor, almost like he’d seen a ghost.
Flashing police lights appeared in the distance, racing towards their house. The Harvesters wouldn’t get far. She hoped.
“Um, hey,” Taylor said, waving a hand to break John Smith’s daze.
He shook his head, blinked away whatever memory had overtaken him and focused up.
“Sorry,” he said after a moment. “You . . . remind me of someone. Are you all right?”
Taylor and her dad nodded in unison, both of them dumbfounded.
John Smith glanced at the overturned cars. “Sorry about the mess,” he said. “I’ll help clean this stuff off your property.”
Brian laughed in disbelief at that.
“You saved our lives,” Taylor said.
John Smith shrugged. “Earth Garde didn’t have a team close enough and I was in the neighborhood.”
“You were in South Dakota?” Taylor exclaimed.
“Canada, actually.”
“Pretty big neighborhood.”
He smiled. “Guess so.”
Taylor kept an eye on the defeated Harvesters as she stepped cautiously off the porch. John Smith seemed kind and, in a way Taylor couldn’t quite explain, deeply melancholy. She had read an article about his time spent hiding out in a small town in Ohio before the invasion and how he tried to live a normal life. Maybe he would understand . . .
“Hey,” she said, keeping her voice low so the Harvesters wouldn’t overhear. “Is it possible to say . . . ? I don’t know . . . that this was all a big misunderstanding? Could we tell the authorities that I don’t actually have Legacies?”
John Smith raised an eyebrow. “But you do.”
“Yeah, but . . . I don’t want to go to the Academy.” Taylor glanced over her shoulder. “I don’t want to leave my dad alone.”
John Smith studied Taylor for a moment, his mouth tightening, and then he looked down at his feet. He shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” he replied. “That’s beyond my power.”
Taylor never got to see if John Smith made good on his word to clean the Harvester vehicles off their property. An armada of cops and FBI showed up—apparently, their local sheriff’s station had been taken over by a second crew of Harvesters, so help had to come down from Sioux Falls—and they were soon joined by an unmarked government helicopter. A pair of Earth Garde representatives rode in on the chopper, local law enforcement immediately deferring to them. They instructed Taylor to pack a bag, which she did slowly and reluctantly and with a lot of help from her father. Then they were hustled onto the helicopter.
Taylor left the farm behind. As the chopper rose up, she looked over the remnants of the battle. She caught sight of John Smith signing autographs for a group of local cops. She thought he glanced up in her direction, but she couldn’t be sure.
Taylor and her dad were taken to the processing center in Denver. The building was located at the base of Pikes Peak, that location chosen because an outcropping of Loralite had grown at the mountain’s top. They were greeted by a bunch of fast-talking lawyers, military brass and hypercurious scientists. They drew Taylor’s blood and asked her to use her telekinesis to push on a piston as hard as she could in order to gauge her strength. She felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment when she caught a glimpse of a researcher checking the box for “average” next to “telekinetic strength.” After that, there were the forms, an endless pile of them—pledges and agreements and waivers.
“Should we have a lawyer present for this stuff?” her dad asked, staring blearily at the latest document thrust before him. The two of them hadn’t been given a chance to sleep and Taylor wasn’t sure whether this was an oversight or on purpose.
“Mr. Cook, I am your lawyer,” replied the middle-aged man sitting across from them in the bunker-like conference room.
“Oh,” her dad said. Taylor could tell he was overwhelmed by everything that had happened. He was a trusting man, smart, but slow and considerate with his words. He was completely out of his element here. And Taylor—well, to her, the entire experience was like a waking nightmare. She thought about all the things left undone: her work around the farm, her essay on Othello. She hadn’t even gotten to say good-bye to her friends.
“What if I refuse to sign this crap?” she asked their supposed lawyer. “Do I get to go home?”
The lawyer took off his glasses and cleaned them, an excuse not to look Taylor in the eyes. “By law, if you don’t sign the agreements in full, your condition will necessitate a period of quarantine.”
“Quarantine?” exclaimed her father. “But didn’t you hear? She heals people!”
“Yes, but that may not be all she can do,” the lawyer replied archly. “There’s still so much we don’t know about Taylor’s condition. The health of the general public has to be taken into consideration.”
“How long would I have to be in quarantine?” Taylor pressed on stubbornly.
“Indefinitely,” the lawyer replied. “You would be the first, so the process would require some . . . figuring out. At the Academy, on the other hand, you will have a world-class education and receive the proper training for your Legacies. You won’t be allowed off campus until you’ve turned eighteen, but your father will be allowed to visit once a month.”
Taylor thought about using her telekinesis to slowly tighten the lawyer’s tie. She could probably fight her way out of there. But what would be waiting for her? Years as a fugitive? Her father’s life ruined? More Harvesters?
“Your family’s farm will also be protected,” the lawyer continued, as if reading her mind. “So another incident like last night’s can be avoided.”
With tears in her eyes, Taylor signed the paperwork. She was now property of the United Nations. An enrollee at the Human Garde Academy.
She was still massaging the pen indentation out of her signing hand when they whisked her off to a secluded military airfield on the outskirts of Denver. There was a private jet waiting for her. Taylor pressed her face into her father’s shirt. She’d been fighting back tears during the entire process and now could feel them spilling over. He hugged her, whispering into her ear
.
“Come on, now. Don’t let these people see you cry. You gotta be strong, Tay.”
“I don’t want to go,” she said, her words muffled into his chest. “I don’t want to leave you all by yourself.”
“Aw, I’ll be just fine,” he replied, although she detected a tremor in his voice. “Imagine all the good you can do, running around with that John Smith fella and his crew. You’re gonna make me so proud.”
And then it was time. They led her across the tarmac, up a set of roll-away steps. Taylor gazed back at her father, waved and then she was sealed inside. Minutes later, buckled into a plush leather chair, Taylor was off the ground, on her way to California in a private jet. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since Teddy had come by their farm to warn them about the Harvesters. To Taylor, it felt like days. She was exhausted, but too anxious to sleep.
There was one other person in the passenger section with her. He was black, built like a linebacker, handsome, with wide eyes that made him seem perpetually curious. She didn’t feel so bad staring at him because he was staring at her, a big, doofy grin on his face.
“Hello,” the boy said at last. His English was slightly accented, almost British.
“Hi,” Taylor replied uncertainly, nearly too tired for socializing.
“I’m Kopano,” the boy continued. “What’s your name?”
