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As Nigel continued into the forest, he fell into the same trap as all the other teams. He passed right by the first group of soldiers—camouflaged and hidden in trees—and they dropped down behind him. They could’ve picked him off then and there, but Archibald’s men were under orders not to engage prematurely; they wanted the Garde boxed in. Soon, they formed an ever-tightening perimeter around him. Nigel didn’t seem aware. Or, maybe more accurately, he didn’t care.
When the cabin came into view, the group of soldiers guarding it stepped out to complete the trap. This was as far as anyone had made it.
Nigel held up his hands in surrender.
“All right, chaps, here’s my strategy,” he said. “I’m going to ask you nicely to release the hostage and let me win, yeah? Nobody’s tried that yet. I’m thinking maybe this is one of those tests where we’re supposed to fail, eh? Or look for a diplomatic and outside-the-box solution? What do ya say?”
Some of the soldiers exchanged glances and snickered.
Archibald was unamused. He spoke into his walkie-talkie. “Take him.”
A soldier slightly behind Nigel fired a tranquilizer dart. Nigel managed to whip around just in time to deflect the projectile with his telekinesis. He wasn’t able to turn back quickly enough to fend off another flanking soldier, this one launching one of those wire-attached shock collars. As soon as the collar was around Nigel’s neck, the soldier depressed a button on his crossbow mechanism that sent a burst of high voltage cranking through Nigel.
Nigel’s whole body contorted in pain. His head flew back and he let loose an eardrum-shattering howl.
Birds in the trees rose up in a squawking panic. Greger dropped his tablet as he attempted too late to cover his ears. Colonel Archibald’s chin went to his chest like he’d been struck, all his features tightening. Many of the soldiers cringed and tried to cover up. Some of them accidentally discharged their weapons into the dirt.
Despite the splitting pain in his own head, Nine charged forward. The scream rolled out of Nigel uncontrollably, loud as a tornado siren amplified by a megaphone. He lunged towards the boy and swiftly backhanded him with his metal hand. Nigel fell to the ground, the maddening scream at last cutting off.
“That was it, wasn’t it?” Nine shouted, his ears ringing. “That was the frequency!”
Nigel stared up at Nine groggily, panic slowly creeping into his expression. “I don’t know! I—the bloody prick was shocking me and—and I lost control!”
Greger took a halting step backwards. “Are we—were we exposed to something?”
“I don’t know,” growled Nine, looking around. Many of the soldiers had thrown off their helmets and were massaging their temples or pinching the bridges of their noses. Nine noticed one soldier who had been close to Nigel clean a bit of blood out of his ear.
“Christ,” Archibald said, massaging the side of his head with the heel of his hand. “What’s the protocol here?”
“Run back to the others,” Nine snapped at one of the soldiers. “Get Taylor Cook up here. She’s a healer.” He looked up to the cabin, then back to Archibald. “Bring all your men in. Anyone who was in earshot needs to be checked.” He surveyed the soldiers. “Anyone feeling dizzy? Nosebleeds?”
The soldiers, uneasy now and uncertain what to do, exchanged glances. One of them raised his hand. “I’m—uh, I’m feeling a little dizzy, sir.”
“Me too,” added another.
“Lads, I’m sure it’s nothing,” Nigel said pleadingly. “I, uh, the frequency only murdered some rodents the one time and I’m not even sure it was the same—”
“Stop talking,” Nine snapped. “Shit. I knew this was a bad idea, Archibald.”
“Don’t put this on me because your students can’t control themselves!” Archibald shouted back.
“What?” Greger asked, tilting his head to the side. “What? I literally can’t hear what you two are saying.”
Taylor jogged onto the scene along with the soldier who had gone to fetch her. Her eyes went wide when she saw Nigel on the ground, bleeding from the mouth, still attached to a shock collar. Nine snapped his fingers in her face.
“I need you to check all these men,” he said.
“Check them? For what?”
“For, like, brain damage,” Nine replied. “See if they need healing. Maybe we got lucky, but . . .” He urged her towards the soldiers. “Just put some healing into them. For safety.”
“What’s going on?” Dr. Goode asked as he ambled down from the cabin with the bored group of Peacekeepers who had spent their entire day guarding him without actually seeing any action. He glanced from the stricken Nigel to the busy Taylor, and finally to Nine. “Did something happen?”
“You didn’t hear the shriek?” Nine asked.
“Of course we heard it, but—”
“That was the death frequency,” Nine said grimly. “Nigel used his death frequency.”
“Accidentally!” Nigel croaked. He rubbed his throat, freshly released from the shock collar.
“His—?” Dr. Goode stared blankly at Nine. “His what?”
Before Nine could answer, Taylor gasped and stepped back from one of the soldiers. He was a young guy—midtwenties with a baby face and a patchy red beard—and his eyes widened in alarm at Taylor’s reaction.
“What—what’s wrong?” the soldier asked.
Everyone went silent and stared. Taylor tentatively pressed her hands to the soldier’s temples. Her eyes narrowed in concentration. She shook her head suddenly and spun to face Nine.
“He’s—there’s something wrong. His brain is—I don’t know—it’s like there’s a darkness? A hemorrhage maybe? It’s beyond what I can handle.”
The soldier visibly paled. “But . . . but I feel okay. Ears are ringing a little.”
“We need to get him back to campus,” Nine said resolutely. “Everybody, let’s go.”
As a group, soldiers and Garde hustled back through the woods. Even though he was done screaming, everyone kept their distance from Nigel except for Taylor. She walked next to him, tending to the minor bruises he’d received during the skirmish. While the redheaded soldier seemed by all appearances to be fine, that didn’t stop a couple of his buddies from hooking his arms over their shoulders and half carrying him out of the woods.
Dr. Goode quickly caught up with a speed-walking Nine.
“I’m sorry, Nine, but I don’t understand what’s happened,” Malcolm said. “What is this business about a death frequency?”
“I’d like the healer to check me, if she’s free . . .” Greger said nervously, glancing over his shoulder at Taylor.
“What is there to understand, Goode?” Archibald snapped. “You were supposed to send out a memo.”
“A memo? Colonel, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Malcolm protested. “Some kind of high-pitched noise capable of producing bleeding on the brain? It’s—I hesitate to use the word ‘preposterous,’ but . . .” He looked again at the silent Nine. “Nine, what’s going on?”
Slowly, a smirk spread across Nine’s face.
Up ahead, the dejected student body came into view. Many of them stood up from the grass, surprised to see the Garde emerging from the woods with a full complement of shaken soldiers.
None of them were more surprised than Nine, who stood among the students, in the middle of giving Kopano a pep talk.
“What the hell!” Nine said in greeting. “You couldn’t wait for me to finish pissing?” Nine was about to say more, but his mouth hung open in confusion. He was staring across the grass at himself.
Archibald, Greger, Goode and all the soldiers turned to stare at the Nine who had led them out of the woods. Only Nigel and Taylor didn’t look surprised. In fact, they were grinning.
In a blur of motion, Nine’s prosthetic arm turned back into flesh, the fingernails coated with bright pink polish. That hand closed around the handle of a tranquilizer pistol, yanked it free from a stunned soldier’s belt and jammed t
he barrel under Colonel Archibald’s chin. All this happened while her form was still transitioning—growing shorter, muscles diminishing, dark curls sprouting out of Nine’s head.
Isabela stood with a gun on Archibald. Her other hand patted Malcolm on the shoulder.
“Hostage rescued,” she declared. “And we also captured the enemy leader. I believe that should be worth an extra twenty hours of recreation time, yes?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE ESCAPISTS
THE HUMAN GARDE ACADEMY—POINT REYES, CALIFORNIA
RAN KNEW THE BRAZILIAN WAS UP TO SOMETHING the minute Lofton rejected her from his team. Ran recognized the spark in Isabela’s eyes—part mischief, part vengeance.
She approved.
The plot hatched while Team Lofton was being picked apart by the Peacekeepers. Isabela would impersonate Professor Nine. With Nigel’s help, she would concoct a story about the deadliness of his sonic powers. Taylor would pop up at the end and sell the entire ruse with her healing.
“We will win without even having to fight anyone,” Isabela declared.
Nigel snorted. “Yeah. Except for me, right? Taking one for the bloody team.”
“Stop complaining and act like a man,” Isabela replied with a dismissive wave.
“It’s kind of like cheating, though, isn’t it?” Taylor asked.
“No!” Isabela replied sharply. “I did not hear any rules. So how can it be cheating?”
Ran stayed silent throughout the discussion, at least until Nigel looked questioningly in her direction. Out of solidarity with her, Nigel had announced that he wouldn’t be participating in the competition. He didn’t know what to make of her renouncement of her Legacy—Nigel was trying to support her, but he still loved using his own powers. For all his put-on cynicism, he really wanted to be a hero. Last year, he’d been the first to volunteer to join the original Garde in the fight against the Mogadorians. Her own vow against using her Legacy aside, Ran would never deny her friend the opportunity to participate in Wargames—something he clearly itched to do.
