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“Hmm,” Ran replied noncommittally.
“Point is, you don’t want to use your Legacies for Earth Garde, that’s fine with me. I don’t know if those UN tools will be chill about it, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. But what I gotta know, if I’m going to graduate you from the Academy, is that should push come to shove, if your life or someone else’s life depends on it—I need to know you won’t hesitate to drop all this pacifist horseshit and blow up some bad guys. Because whether you like it or not, you’re a Garde, and situations like that tend to happen to us.”
Ran considered Nine’s words.
“I will not hesitate,” she said quietly.
Nine nodded once, satisfied, and stood up. He laid his towel out in the sand and began the process of detaching his prosthetic limb. Ran realized he planned to go swimming.
“By the way,” he said, “how’s the new roommate?”
Ran tilted her head. “Taylor? She is fine. Adjusting, I think.”
“Good,” Nine replied, and set his arm down in the towel. “Keep an eye on her, yeah? You wouldn’t think it, but healers got it worse than badass types like us. The whole savior thing, it can mess ’em up.”
There was something in Nine’s tone—almost like a warning, almost like he wasn’t saying exactly what he meant. Before Ran could ask him any further questions, he jogged towards the water and dove into the waves.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CALEB CRANE
THE HUMAN GARDE ACADEMY—POINT REYES, CALIFORNIA
“YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR PROBLEM IS, MAN?”
Caleb Crane shook his head. No. He did not know what his problem was.
“You don’t have any balls. That’s what your problem is.”
Caleb’s brow creased. He grew up with two older brothers and a drill instructor for a father. He was used to this kind of talk. That didn’t mean he appreciated it.
“You like this Taylor girl, right? But it’s been weeks and you haven’t said anything to her. That’s pathetic, man. I’m not even saying you should flirt with her. I’m not sure you’re capable of that without embarrassing yourself.”
Caleb rubbed the back of his neck. He sat on the foot of his bed, the door to his room closed. This lecture—on the topic of how huge a loser he was—had already been going on for some time.
“You could be like—‘Hey, how are your classes going? What kind of music do you like? What are your favorite movies?’ They call that small talk, you creep. I mean, if she asks you those questions back, you’ll have to lie because your taste sucks and your life is lame, but whatever. Anyway, probably better to lie, just say you like what she likes. Always agree with her. That’s a good strategy. How hard is that, dude?”
“It isn’t really my style,” Caleb replied. “To, um, be so manipulative.”
“You don’t have a style! Look, I know your confidence is shot because of, like, your brothers beating the shit out of you all the time and kids at school making fun of your big ears . . .”
This was true. Caleb had been mocked mercilessly in elementary school for his ears—which he had since grown into. His classmates would flop their arms in front of their faces like an elephant’s trunk and make trumpet noises with their mouths. It had stuck with him.
“. . . but you’re good-looking now. I mean, you’re okay. Your clothes suck. We can work on that. But listen, all you need to do is be nice, chat her up a little—and then, boom, you’re her friend.”
“The friend zone,” Caleb said. “I heard that was bad.”
“What? Did you read that in some ladies’ magazine? Don’t say ‘friend zone.’ Ever. Look, stupid, here’s what a guy with your limited charms has to do. You get in tight. Buddy up. And then—well, school here is stressful. She’s probably emotional. Most girls are. You wait for her to let her guard down, for her to need a good cry—and whose shoulder is she going to look for?”
“Mine?”
“Bingo!”
“But . . .” Caleb’s brow furrowed. “The goal is to make her cry?”
“No! The goal is to take advantage of an emotional situation. God, you’re a hopeless case. Why do I even bother?”
Caleb looked up at himself. A duplicate. Him . . . but different. A fast talker, mean, with highly questionable opinions about the opposite sex.
“I think it’s time for you to go,” Caleb said.
The duplicate held up his hands. “Whoa, hold on—”
Caleb stood up. He could reabsorb a duplicate without wrapping his hands around the duplicate’s neck, but this one had really gotten on his nerves.
“Ack—! Stop!”
And then he was gone. The room was quiet. Caleb was alone.
Outside, in the common room, Caleb found Kopano watching a martial arts movie. The Nigerian smiled and waved.
“This part is good!” Kopano said. “You guys should come watch.”
Caleb glanced over his shoulder. “It’s just me.”
“Oh,” Kopano said, paying more attention to his movie than Caleb. “I thought I heard you talking to someone in there.”
“No,” Caleb said. He watched a few seconds of the movie, then headed for the door. “I’ve got Dr. Linda. See you later.”
Dr. Linda pushed her reading glasses up her nose and peered down at Caleb’s file, thumbing through notes on his recent training activities. “I see here you were able to create nine duplicates this morning,” she said. “A new personal best.”
Caleb sat opposite Dr. Linda on her couch, back straight, hands on his thighs. “Yes,” he affirmed.
“And did you have any issues with control?”
“No, ma’am,” Caleb answered, then frowned. “Well, not during the training, anyway.”
Dr. Linda looked up from his file. “What happened, Caleb?”
“Afterwards, in my room, I duplicated without realizing it,” Caleb confessed. “One minute I was thinking about . . . I don’t know. Stuff. And the next minute he was there. He was a jerk. Really mean to me.”
Dr. Linda tapped her pen against her chin. “Are you angry with yourself, Caleb?”
“What? No.”
“We’ve talked about this before, haven’t we?”
“We have?”
“The duplicates are completely in your control,” Dr. Linda said, standing up. “When one of them talks to you, when you talk back—this is you having a conversation with yourself.”
Caleb shook his head. “The stuff this guy was saying—I wouldn’t say anything like that.”
Dr. Linda went to her filing cabinet. “No. You wouldn’t. But your subconscious? Able to communicate without a filter? One can only imagine what kind of truths might tumble out. It seems pushing your powers can exacerbate these incidents. Tiredness, stress, strain—these conditions create adverse behavioral reactions in regular people. In someone with your Legacy, the problem is—no pun intended—multiplied.”
Caleb crossed his arms. “It’s not just me being tired. Or, if it is, it’s because I keep them in check and then lose my grip. I swear, Dr. Linda, they have minds of their own.”
“They literally do not.”
Dr. Linda handed Caleb a slim file. He already knew the contents; she had shown it to him during their last session. A few weeks ago—spurred on by Caleb’s continued insistence that the duplicates were their own people as well as the discussion of anatomy in one of his classes—Dr. Goode and the Academy’s medical staff had given one of Caleb’s clones an MRI. Not only was no brain activity detected, but the duplicate appeared to be made from a substance that only approximated human flesh. There was something not quite right in the molecules, but samples proved hard to examine because they kept being reabsorbed into Caleb. At the same time, the researchers gave Caleb his own MRI. They found that his brain responded whenever a duplicate acted or was stimulated.
Last session, the results had given Caleb pause. He’d had a week to think about them, though. He set the file down without looking at it.
&nb
sp; “All due respect, Dr. Linda, because I sure do appreciate all you guys have tried to do to help me, but . . .” Caleb looked down at the floor. “Since we’re dealing with, y’know, alien powers and stuff? Couldn’t the science here be wrong? Maybe my duplicates think in a way that’s beyond what your machines can register.”
Dr. Linda narrowed her eyes a fraction. Caleb knew that look. He had disappointed her.
“In my opinion, and in the unanimous opinion of the doctors and scientists who work here, that is simply not the case.”
Caleb nodded stiffly. That was his habit whenever an adult said something authoritative, even if he didn’t necessarily agree.
