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“You bitches talking about me?” Taylor asked.
Chapter Six
TAYLOR COOK
THE HUMAN GARDE ACADEMY—POINT REYES, CALIFORNIA
Dear Taylor . . .
. . . hope this letter finds you well . . .
. . . give us a second chance . . .
By saving one life, you have saved thousands more.
I look forward to working with you again . . .
A letter of apology. The Foundation had sent her a freaking letter of apology, one that doubled as a come-on. Taylor couldn’t believe the nerve of these people. They had kidnapped her and almost gotten her friends killed, and their response was to break out the good stationery and calligraphy pens.
Taylor still remembered the anger she felt that day, weeks ago. She’d burst into Nine’s office and practically thrown the letter at him. She wanted to do something. Anything.
“They’ve got moles here,” Taylor said. “Maybe we should get some there.”
“How do you suggest we do that?”
“Let me go back,” Taylor replied. “Let them recruit me. I’ll be a double agent.”
Nine leaned back in his chair, toying with one of the joints on his mechanical arm. “You’re a student. Not even graduated to Earth Garde. I can’t assign you some dangerous mission.”
Taylor stared at him. “Seriously? But you said—”
Nine held up his hands. “Okay, you talked me into it. If Malcolm asks, we argued about it for way longer before you wore me down. We need a plan, though. Two plans. One to keep you safe and one to make the Foundation believe you really want to be there. Because if you run away again and let them scoop you up, they might not believe you’re really with them. You could end up like that poor kid you told us about. The vegetable.”
Taylor swallowed hard at the memory of the wheelchair-bound Garde she’d met in Abu Dhabi. “I made my feelings about them pretty clear,” she said. “How do we convince them that I’ve changed my mind?”
Nine picked up his tablet and accessed Taylor’s academic record. “Let’s see. Says here that your grades are good and your instructors call you a joy to have in class. You’re kind to your fellow students and seem naturally predisposed to being a healer.”
“So?”
“So, for starters, you’re going to have to cut all that shit out,” Nine said. He leaned forward. “Taylor, it’s time for you to discover the dark side.”
It hadn’t been easy.
In the student union, two days after they decided Dr. Linda must be the mole, Taylor grimaced at her economics textbook. She couldn’t figure something out. The concepts she understood—business cycles, bubbles and booms, recessions and depressions. What she couldn’t wrap her head around was when she’d ever get a chance to use this information.
She glared at the first question on her homework. Imagine that you own a supermarket . . .
Taylor snorted. What were the odds of that happening? But okay—imagine she did own a supermarket. Then, if it didn’t get burned to the ground by a bunch of crazy religious fundamentalists who sincerely believed Taylor was some kind of devil spawn—big if there—she could set up a kiosk in the pharmacy aisle and heal sick customers, charging them . . . oh, how about everything they owned? That would be the Foundation’s business model, anyway. Maybe she should write about that. Capitalism in a post-Garde world. How to exploit Legacies for money.
A rip formed in her notebook paper where Taylor had been angrily scribbling. Taylor took a breath and set down her pen. She had always been a good student, was one of those kids who whipped through her work as soon as she got home, who asked her teachers for extra credit when assignments felt too easy. Taylor liked school, and the classes at the Human Garde Academy were more interesting and challenging than anything she had taken back in South Dakota.
But now, after weeks of tanking tests and being rude in class, even Taylor’s inner thoughts were turning cynical. She couldn’t look at her economics homework without feeling the whole thing was pointless.
With a tired sigh, Taylor looked up from her books. It was lunchtime, so the student union was busy. Kids from dozens of different counties carried trays of food back to tables and booths, had laughing conversations, or engaged in a telekinetic battle to change the channel on the student union’s one big-screen television.
Strings of red and green lights were draped from the ceiling and wrapped around the second-floor bannisters. There were paper cutouts of candy canes and snowmen taped to the walls, and a glowing menorah in the middle of the room. Someone on the faculty had really gone all out decorating for the season.
Taylor bit the inside of her cheek. This was going to be the first Christmas she’d ever spent away from home. She tried not to imagine her dad there all by himself, but couldn’t help picturing him sitting in their living room beside a droopy Christmas tree. In this depressing fantasy, the place was trashed, her dad sitting under a broken ceiling beam while melting snow dripped through the open roof and ruined their old couch.
She shouldn’t have left him there by himself.
And then, she shouldn’t have involved him in their plan . . .
Taylor shook her head, forcing herself not to dwell on what was already done.
It wasn’t like Taylor would be the only one stuck at the Academy for the holidays. Most of the students weren’t allowed to visit home. Apparently, for security reasons, the Academy only felt comfortable letting a handful of them go, and even those lucky Garde would be bringing small armies of UN Peacekeepers with them. The students who were allowed to leave were chosen based on their Legacy control, time elapsed since their last visit, grades, and recent behavior. So if someone snuck off campus and ended up in the midst of international chaos, they probably weren’t getting a trip home. Unless that someone was Caleb.
She’d heard kids crying in the dorms. The emotional breakdowns that inevitably occurred in such a high-stress environment had doubled lately. So had the lines for the phones and the public computers. Taylor wasn’t the only one having a tough time, although she was the only one having a tough time and pretending to be a jerk who hated everyone.
“You’re always staring at her.”
“You should just go talk to her. I read that American girls admire the direct approach.”
“While you’re there, ask her what it was like to kill people.”
Taylor pretended that she couldn’t hear the loudly whispered conversation taking place at the table next to hers, but her flushed cheeks gave her away. She put her head down, let some hair fall into her face and peeked over. They were a foursome of boys, none older than fifteen. They were all tweebs, meaning they’d only developed their telekinesis so far, no primary Legacy. They were the bottom rung on the Academy’s social ladder and tended to stick together. Taylor was pretty sure that a couple of them had arrived at the Academy after her; she didn’t even know their names. Crazy. To think that she wasn’t such a newbie around here anymore, even though she’d only been here like four months.
“She didn’t kill anyone,” said the tweeb who the others were trying to cajole into hitting on her. “She’s a healer.”
Taylor realized that she did know that guy. His name was Miki. On her first day at the Academy, she had seen him send Isabela’s old boyfriend Lofton flying across the training center. Even then, his telekinesis was rumored to be more powerful than anyone else’s on campus. He was only fourteen and small for his age, barely over five feet tall, with dark hair and almond-shaped eyes. But his features had hardened a bit over the last few months, some of the Inuit boy’s baby fat chiseled away. He was like king of the tweebs now, Taylor surmised.
“I’d let her heal my wounds, if you know what I’m saying,” said one of the other boys.
“Of course she killed people, dude,” said another. “They all did. They fought like a hundred of those Harvester people.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“What’d you hear?”
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“That they got drunk in San Francisco and made up the whole Harvester thing to get out of trouble.”
“You guys gossip too much,” Miki said, shutting down the discussion. He flashed Taylor an apologetic smile—he knew that she’d overheard them. She sneered in response and looked away.
Hushed conversations like that tended to happen around Taylor lately. She had a reputation. The other kids called Taylor and her friends the Fugitive Six. The nickname made Taylor roll her eyes.
Suddenly, the tweeb boys stopped talking about her and got real interested in the trashy talk show on the TV. A second later, Isabela plunked a tray of food down next to Taylor’s homework. A crouton bounced into the middle of her economics textbook.
“Lunch is served,” Isabela said as she put her own tray down on the table and pulled out a chair. “The line was so long, I almost died of starvation. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Taylor flicked the crouton off her book and glanced over at the tweebs’ table. If they didn’t have the courage to talk to Taylor, they definitely wouldn’t last a second with Isabela, and by the looks on their faces they all knew it. The dark-haired Brazilian had a more outlandish reputation around campus than Taylor. She was also known for saying whatever was on her mind, no matter how cutting.
“Those boys were straight ogling you,” Isabela declared loudly. “Ogling. I learned that word today. It means gross eyeball from horny pervert.”
“Close enough,” Taylor replied. She nudged the plate of food Isabela had brought her. “Hey. What is this?”
Isabela smiled, always happy to practice her quickly developing English.
“Too easy,” Isabela said. “That’s a salad.”
“No, I mean—I know it’s a salad. Why’d you bring me it?”
Isabela shrugged. “To eat?”
“I told you when we got here that I wanted pizza.”
“They were out of pizza.”
