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“They’d be figuring out ways to exploit the new world,” Caleb said. “To use the Garde to their advantage.”
“Maybe so, maybe so.” Lawson nodded. “You have any experience with organizations like that?”
Caleb looked at his uncle. How much did he know? Was he dropping hints that the Foundation could be tied to remnants of MogPro or was this all just a big coincidence? Caleb pictured the tidbits of research they’d gathered and theories they’d mulled over. Should he share that with his uncle? Clarence puffed innocently at his cigar, like the two boys were just out here chewing the fat in the freezing cold.
“No,” Caleb said. “Haven’t heard about anything like that. Just guessing.”
Caleb stared down at his hands. For a moment, his fingers doubled—twenty of them, interlaced in his lap, shaking slightly. A duplicate trying to get loose to tell his uncle the truth. He caught himself just in time. He was agitated, conflicted—that was always when he lost control.
He took a deep breath. Steadied himself. Maybe his uncle had good intentions and was on the side of the Garde. But he’d taken away the Chimærae. He’d used Caleb in the past.
Caleb couldn’t trust him. He could only trust his friends at the Academy. He forced himself to be of one mind on this.
The indecision lasted only a few seconds. If his uncle noticed anything awry, he didn’t say anything. In fact, he changed the subject.
“You know who Wade Sydal is, Caleb?”
“The weapons manufacturer,” Caleb replied. “He makes all the gear the Peacekeepers will use on us if we ever get out of hand.”
Lawson snorted. “I’ve seen what Garde can do. If you lot set your mind to do something, I don’t think Sydal’s trinkets will make much difference in the long run. That said, our country’s investing a great deal in his Garde deterrents. He’s an old friend of President Jackson, you know? Big campaign contributor.”
Caleb recalled how the Harvesters were armed with anti-Garde technology, presumably supplied by the Foundation. He and his friends hadn’t been able to figure out whether the gear was stolen or Sydal was double-dealing.
“You think he’s one of them?” Caleb asked.
“One of whom?”
Caleb winced. He’d slipped up, forgotten he was supposed to be talking around the existence of the Foundation.
“One of your . . . I don’t know,” Caleb said, covering. “Conspirators? Mog sympathizers? You won’t even say.”
Clarence tapped ash off his cigar, chuckling. “Doubt it. I was just reading an article about him on the flight up. Interesting guy. Maybe you’ll have a chance to meet him once you’re in Earth Garde. I’d love to hear what you think.”
“Uh, okay,” Caleb said.
“You’ll do great out there. But keep your eyes open,” Clarence said, and patted Caleb on the knee. “If you see anything odd or even if something doesn’t feel right, you know how to reach me.”
“Yeah,” Caleb replied. He was still coming to terms with all this. He’d be leaving the Academy, just when he was finally settling in. “Okay.”
And that was that. General Lawson stood up, wet the tips of his fingers, and pinched the end of his cigar. He shook some feeling into his feet.
“I’m going to go see what your mom’s cooking,” he said. “Don’t freeze out here, son.”
Caleb nodded and watched his uncle go inside. A shiver came over him and he huddled deeper into his coat, staring down the darkened street.
“You really can’t go home again,” he muttered to himself. “Or maybe the expression should be . . . you shouldn’t go home again.”
No one replied. For once, all the duplicates agreed with him.
Chapter Eleven
THE FUGITIVE SIX
THE HUMAN GARDE ACADEMY—POINT REYES, CALIFORNIA
LUNCHTIME AND THE DINING HALL WAS BUSTLING with activity. Groups of students filed through the buffet line, filled their trays, and lounged around tables. Others scarfed down lunches and rushed off—some kids still hadn’t finished their end-of-semester assignments and it was the last day to get those in. It was New Year’s Eve.
Kopano smiled, enjoying all the activity. He picked up a corner of his turkey sandwich and leisurely bit into it. He didn’t have anything to do today except wait for the night’s festivities. On the second floor, volunteers were hanging streamers and cardboard HAPPY NEW YEAR! signs. That wouldn’t take long with Maiken Megalos and her superspeed zipping around up there.
With Nigel and Caleb at an emergency band practice, Ran in training, and Isabela who-knows-where, that meant Kopano was eating his lunch alone. He didn’t mind. From his table, he had a clear view of Taylor serving food. Dining-hall duty was part of her punishment for decking Isabela. He thought she looked good, even in a hairnet.
Kopano spaced out, thinking about that kiss on Christmas Eve and wondering how he could arrange a repeat performance without blowing Taylor’s cover. He didn’t notice the chatter in the room die down. He probably would’ve missed the whole broadcast if Simon, sitting at a neighboring table, hadn’t called his name.
“Kopano,” Simon said, pointing up at the TV, “isn’t that you?”
Someone had put on Wolf News. Kopano was familiar with the American network from his current-events class. They broadcast a lot of stories about lurking aliens and dangerous Garde. Everyone knew their coverage was slanted, so it wasn’t a channel that typically got played in the student union. Yet, all eyes were on the TV now.
The screen was split. On the left was the host, Don Leary, a red-faced man in his late fifties, his majestic head of ink-black hair plugs swept back. On the right was some grainy cell phone video, the same clip repeating over and over.
“I repeat, this footage is not for the faint of heart,” Leary gravely declared. “Even after the harrowing events of the Mogadorian invasion, it’s still disconcerting to see these superpowered things in action. But what makes this even harder to watch is that these aren’t extraterrestrial invaders being assaulted. These are American citizens. And the attackers? Not aliens either. Human beings. Ones supposedly being trained to ‘protect us.’”
Kopano focused on the looped footage. It was dark and jumpy, filmed by someone hiding behind the back end of a car. Even so, Kopano recognized the location. It was the stretch of California highway where the Fugitive Six had fought the Harvesters.
In the video, the sky lit up. A tracer of red cut through the dark, descended, and exploded. Bodies flew up from the blast site, limp and lifeless. A motorcycle careened by, flipped end over end.
Another glow ignited down the road. The person filming zoomed in towards the source of the fireworks, revealing Ran with glowing objects in either hand. As the camera filmed, she hurled one of these bombs at a passing motorcyclist, knocking him off and sending his bike skittering.
The camera suddenly jolted. Someone had been viciously thrown against the car the cameraperson used for cover. The view zoomed out just in time to reveal Kopano punching a biker across the face with enough force to bend his body over backwards.
Kopano watched himself turn—empty-eyed, emotionless—and charge the camera. The video cut off there. Of course, the nice people at Wolf News immediately started it over. Leary spoke over the clip.
“Our sources have identified the two assailants in the video as students at the UN’s Human Garde Academy in California. Their names and countries of origin are being kept private because they’re minors, but the footage speaks for itself. This is a heinous attack on American soil by two dangerous individuals drunk on their own power. It is exactly the kind of incident the government promised wouldn’t happen as a result of the Academy. Do you feel safer with hundreds of these . . . these creatures running wild in our own backyard? I certainly don’t . . .”
Kopano looked away, his eyes blurry with frustrated tears. He wiped his face on the back of his hand, hoping that no one else in the student union would notice.
Luckily, most of his peers were
also watching the news broadcast. Or maybe that wasn’t lucky at all. They were all seeing Kopano—literally out of his mind—viciously beat ordinary people.
The broadcast switched over to an interview with a leather-clad man in a neck brace. A Harvester. He claimed that they were just a group of bikers out for a peaceful ride when they were accosted by the Garde. The host treated him sympathetically, asking him softball questions. Kopano tuned it out, his ears ringing.
He stood up, harder than he’d meant to, and knocked over his chair. Everyone was looking at him now. Simon scooted his chair backwards, like he was afraid of Kopano.
Kopano’s fists were clenched, a fact he didn’t even realize until Taylor appeared at his side and squeezed her fingers through his.
“It’s all a lie,” she said, not caring that such a display might jeopardize her rebellious reputation. She raised her voice a bit, so the other students could hear. “What they’re saying isn’t how it went down at all. Missionary bikers on a ride for Jesus? Give me a break! Look at these clips. How convenient that they edited out all the parts where they shoot guns at us.”
Some nearby students murmured agreement. But a few also edged away from Kopano. And others whispered to each other behind their hands.
“Look at me,” Kopano said, crestfallen. The news was rerunning the clip over and over. “I look like a monster.”
Taylor squeezed his hand tighter. “That’s not you,” she replied. “Don’t worry. This will get sorted out. Professor Nine will have your back.”
When the news broke, Ran was in the training center with Nine. While most of the other students had left for lunch or free time, Ran wanted another run at the obstacle course. She wouldn’t use her Legacies. Her new thing was to see how far she could make it relying only on her natural physical abilities.
