Renegades

by Marissa Meyer

  Then she looked up again, and all sense of charm and amusement vanished, like a fire doused in ice water.

  Leaving the message unanswered, Nova lowered her wrist, took in a breath, and made her way down the length of the corridor.

  Spot lighting was installed in a track on the ceiling, and the glint of light off the helmet’s surface shifted as she came closer. She could see hints of her own reflection in the panels that curved around the face. The sharpness of the light snagged on the broken cranium where the Captain’s pike had long ago broken through, leaving a gaping hole and deep cracks emanating outward. The helmet was set on a thin dowel, so that from certain angles it appeared suspended in air, the open slit where Ace’s eyes had once peered through now nothing but a black hole. Unlike the artifacts in the main lobby, it was not protected by glass, but left out in the open. As if there were no fear of it ever being taken. As if no one worried that it might someday fall again into the hands of a villain.

  And why should they fear it? That hole through the top was proof enough that it was destroyed. Whatever power it had once contained, whatever strength her father had worked into the fabric of this energy-turned-metal was long gone.

  Nova stopped when she was an arm’s length away from the helmet, overcome with memories.

  Uncle Ace standing over the sleeping form of a murderer, looking at Nova with both sadness and awe.

  Ace making the bells of the cathedral thunder and chime, just to bring a smile to Nova’s face.

  The moment she had seen the Council’s parade float come into view, with the Captain showing off this helmet like a hunter proud of his conquest.

  Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she lifted her hand, letting it hover an inch off the helmet’s brow. She imagined faint vibrations coming off it, almost as though it could sense her presence. She felt sure some alarm would sound, but she couldn’t quite resist the slow inhale of breath as she settled her hand onto the cool metal.

  There were no alarms.

  And the helmet felt like … a helmet. No shock of energy was sent through her skin. No faint pulse could be felt against her flesh. Just cool metal.

  Looking at her own hand placed reverentially against the golden surface, Nova’s eye landed on the slender bracelet dangling around her wrist.

  Her brows drew together. Her head listed to one side. Reaching her other hand forward, she took hold of the delicate filigree and held it up to the light, wondering whether it was a trick of the shadows.

  Her heart began to pound.

  The bracelet and the helmet were not the same. There was a distinctive rosy tint to the bracelet, a beautiful but subtle vibrancy worked through the material that was missing from the helmet, which was itself a worn copper-gold.

  Her frown deepened, as justifications worked their way to the surface. Surely the difference was because the helmet was ruined. Whatever power had once imbued the material was gone.

  But then … her bracelet was broken too. The original clasp was missing entirely, and the prongs still hung empty, waiting for whatever jewel her father had intended for it. Should it not have also been relegated to this dull, muted tone?

  Before she could doubt herself, Nova reached forward and plucked the helmet off its stand.

  Still, not a single alarm blared. The corridor remained as quiet as ever as Nova pulled it closer, noting first how heavy it was, when she could remember her father’s creations seeming impossibly light.

  Nova turned it from side to side. She inspected the rupture in the top. Felt the edges along the back. Flipped it over and peered inside.

  An abrupt laugh burbled from her mouth. For there, printed on the inside of the cranium, were the words MADE WITH 100% RECYCLED MATERIALS.

  “Miss McLain?”

  Her laugh turned into a yelp and she spun around. At first, she was faced with only an empty corridor, but then a form shimmered in the air and solidified.

  The Dread Warden. He was not wearing his usual black cloak and domino mask, but blue jeans and a dress shirt. Nova’s emotions were wound so tight, from her recent shocks, from the discovery of the helmet to the discovery of its being an impostor and now to the arrival of one of her archenemies dressed like a completely normal person, that they all combined into another frazzled, slightly delirious laugh pouring out of her again.

  Simon Westwood frowned and Nova had to tuck the helmet against her side with one arm and clamp the other hand over her mouth to try to halt the giggling. “Sorry,” she gasped. Gulped. Cleared her throat. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t … I was just…” She looked down at the helmet and realized that perhaps an alarm had gone off after all, only not one she could hear. Perhaps any tampering with artifacts in these offices was announced to members of the Council in a more discreet manner. She’d just been caught in the act of taking Ace Anarchy’s helmet—as far as anyone would know, she’d been trying to steal it.

  She shook her head. “I wasn’t trying to take it, I swear.”

  Simon’s expression remained more curious than alarmed, and though he said nothing, she could sense him urging her to go on.

  So she did, her thoughts scrambling to prove her innocence, until it occurred to her that … she was, in fact, innocent. She wasn’t going to steal the helmet. For once, as far as the Renegades were concerned, she hadn’t actually done anything wrong. Other than perhaps leaving fingerprints smudged on what she could only ascertain was a completely worthless relic.

  A fake.

  “I heard you had some neat artifacts up here, so I came to see them. I was told that was okay? That anyone could come and look?”

  Simon nodded, just slightly.

  “Um … and when I saw the helmet … I got curious. I mean, it’s…” She barely refrained from laughing again. “It’s Ace Anarchy’s helmet. But then I got closer and … and it seemed … off.”

  “Off?” said Simon.

  She swallowed. “It’s a fake. This isn’t Ace Anarchy’s helmet.”

  Simon’s dark eyes seemed to soften, just barely. “How could you tell?”

  Nova looked down at the helmet. She gripped it in both hands again, holding it out so she could stare into the empty face. How could she tell?

  “Every description I’ve ever heard, or read,” she started, “said that the helmet had a sort of … an internal glow. But this is just … metal. Normal metal.”

  “Copper-plated aluminum,” said Simon, drawing her gaze back up to him. He now wore a wan smile. “I’d heard you were observant, Miss McLain, but I must say, I’m impressed. I don’t know that there’s been anyone that helmet hasn’t fooled yet.”

  “But why? Why is there a fake?”

  Simon stepped forward and took the helmet out of her hands. He inspected it himself for a second, his lips tight, as if he might be reliving painful memories. “This is what we use when we want to put it on display. It’s a great icon, you know—the defeat of humanity’s worst villain. It’s a visible reminder of how far we’ve come since the Day of Triumph, and how much we have to lose if we ever let humanity slide back to the way it was.”

  “But it’s not real.”

  Shrugging, he set the helmet back on its stand, adjusting it so that it balanced just right. “It doesn’t need to be.”

  “But—” Nova huffed, not sure how he could be so calm about this. She couldn’t keep herself from sounding insistent when she asked, “But where’s the real one?”

  “Ah,” said Simon, comprehension filtering through his expression. “Is that what you’re worried about?”

  She frowned. “I’m not worried.”

  Simon’s eyebrows lifted. Though his olive-toned skin was light compared with Adrian’s, everything else about him was dark. Thick, dark eyebrows. Thick, dark hair. Thick, dark beard. Somehow, it all served to make him seem more expressive, as if whole stories could be told with the curl of his lip or the crinkle of his eyes.

  Nova didn’t like it. Standing so close to him, she felt on display herself,
like he could see right through her. The thought made her uncomfortable, especially when faced with the oft-invisible man.

  “I’m not worried,” she insisted. “I just don’t understand why there’s a fake.”

  He hummed, and she could tell he didn’t believe her. “The real helmet is kept under high security in the artifacts warehouse. We’ve never taken it out into public. It’s not exactly the sort of thing you’d want falling into the wrong hands.”

  “Why not?” she said. “It’s useless, isn’t it? Captain Chromium destroyed it.”

  “Eh…” Simon rocked his head to the side, squinting one eye as if to say this one minor detail might have been a bit of an oversight. “That part of the legend might have been a bit embellished. We did claim the helmet during the Battle for Gatlon. And Hugh did try to destroy it, but…” He shrugged.

  “But … what?” said Nova, suddenly breathless. “It’s not destroyed?”

  Simon gave her a sympathetic look. “Don’t worry. No one is ever going to use that helmet to torment the people of this city again. We’ll see to that.”

  Her fingers grasped at the air, as if the real helmet might be there, waiting for her to grab it. “So … can people go see it?”

  “Ace Anarchy’s helmet?

  She nodded. “Renegades, I mean. Obviously not the public, but … if one of us wanted to see it, could we?”

  The Dread Warden chuckled. “Maybe if you made a really great bribe to the people in weapons and artifacts. I hear Snapshot is a sucker for sour gummies. Hard to come by anymore, those are, but if you find some, she might let you take a peek.”

  Nova frowned, unable to tell if he was joking or not.

  It didn’t matter, though. She wanted more than just a peek, and he’d already given her so much more than she’d expected.

  The helmet was intact. Ace’s helmet was not destroyed, and it was here, in this very building, somewhere beneath her very feet.

  Her communicator chimed again. She glanced down automatically, scanning the new message from Adrian.

  Seriously—you’re not actually passed out in a ditch, are you?

  She shook her head, unable to tell if he was trying to be funny. If so, the humor was lost on her jumbled thoughts.

  “Everything all right?” said Simon.

  “Oh yeah.” She waved her hand, finding it a challenge to remain composed when it seemed that the foundation of everything she knew to be true had just shifted beneath her. “That’s just the, uh … healers, wondering where I went. I’m supposed to be in the med wing, but … I get restless being cooped up in one spot for too long.”

  He nodded, as if this made perfect sense, and started heading back toward the central lobby. Sensing that she was intended to follow, Nova glanced one more time at the helmet then fell into step beside him.

  “Adrian told us all about your run-in with Max. That was brave, what you did. I’m sorry you got hurt.”

  “Max was the one that got hurt. I just passed out for a bit.”

  Simon cast her a sideways look.

  “Besides, I didn’t actually know what would happen if I went in there, so I’m not sure we can call it brave.”

  His lips started to tick upward. “Would you prefer if I said it was reckless and dangerous?”

  Nova held his gaze, unable to tell if he was teasing her or condemning her … or if this, too, was a compliment of sorts. Finally, she responded, “All in a day’s work, right?”

  Then, to her endless dismay, Simon Westwood laughed. A true, boisterous laugh, warm and guttural.

  That was when it occurred to her that she was chatting with the Dread Warden. She had just made him laugh.

  And not once had it crossed her mind that perhaps she should be using this chance to contemplate the best way of killing him.

  Which was savvy, she told herself. She had counted the cameras when she stepped off the elevator. She knew there was no way to murder someone here and get away with it.

  But still … shouldn’t the thought at least have crossed her mind?

  “Do you know how Max is doing?” she said, eager for a new topic of conversation.

  “He’s going to be fine,” said Simon. “The amount of blood loss made the wound appear far worse than it really was. Of course, due to the nature of his gift we can’t tend to him with prodigy healers, but even the normal doctors say that he will recover quickly. Perhaps with a scar, but what young man doesn’t appreciate a new scar from time to time?”

  They passed the painting of the Day of Triumph and Simon paused to look at it—not admiring so much as thoughtful.

  “Perhaps,” he continued, “this experience has taught Max to be a bit more careful when it comes to experimenting with powers he’s not yet fully in control of. It’s a hard lesson for any prodigy to learn, but I think him more so than most.”

  Nova’s gaze traced the figures in the painting again. Captain Chromium holding up the helmet that she could now think of only as the impostor, knowing that pike had never been driven through it to begin with. Then she stared at Ace’s body, fallen at the Captain’s feet, and knew that this part of the legend, too, was a lie.

  And also—

  “Someone is missing from this picture,” Nova said. “Max was there too, wasn’t he?”

  Simon did not look at her as he answered, “Did Adrian tell you, or did you figure it out for yourself?”

  “A little bit of both.” She tore her focus away from the painting. “What really happened? How did Max get Ace Anarchy’s power?”

  Simon scratched his beard. “Well. It was near the end of the fight. We couldn’t bring Max into it before that, because his abilities would affect our allies as well as our enemies. But by that point, Ace Anarchy had separated himself from the rest of the gangs. He was standing up on one of the arcades of the cathedral, attacking those still on the ground. Of course, Hugh could withstand him more than anyone. Realizing this was our best chance, he went and got Max, who we’d hidden in a nearby cellar with a nurse to take care of him. Hugh strapped him to his back and returned to the battle. He’s told me it was the most difficult thing he’s ever done, knowing the danger he was putting Max into, but he didn’t think there would be any other way.”

  Nova’s jaw fell open as she listened, trying to picture the scene. The righteous, invincible Captain Chromium … charging into battle with a baby strapped to his back? She didn’t know if she should find the image horrifying or hysterical.

  “He scaled one of the side walls,” said Simon, his voice having gone distant. “I remember looking up and seeing him at one point and realizing what he was going to do. Hugh reached the top, and Ace realized he was there. The closer he and Max got, the weaker Ace became, but he was still strong. He still tried to fight. He knew he couldn’t hurt Hugh, so he focused his attacks on Max, knowing that must be the cause of his weakness.” Simon paused, before adding, “I remember how remarkable it seemed at the time that Max didn’t utter a sound—not a single cry.”

  Nova shuddered.

  “Eventually, Ace lost enough power that he couldn’t keep fighting. Hugh managed to wrestle the helmet away from him—and the moment he had the helmet, it was as if all the fight drained out of Ace Anarchy. A third of the church was destroyed by that point, one side of it was on fire, nearly all the Anarchists were dead, and Captain Chromium had his helmet. He must have known he’d lost. So … Hugh went to finish it, when Ace Anarchy simply … turned and jumped. He jumped from three stories up, right into the fire.”

  Nova was looking at the painting again, and found it astounding how a piece of art that had gotten so much wrong could still be here, in such a place of honor. Maybe it was testament to how much the truth, in this case, had never really mattered.

  “Thank you for telling me,” she murmured.

  “No, thank you.”

  Brow crinkling, she looked up at the Dread Warden. He wasn’t looking at her or the painting, but smiling softly into space. “I was never able to
hold Max. Not when he was a baby, not now when he’s hurt or sad. But I still love him. He’s as much a son to me as Adrian is. So … thank you.” He met Nova’s gaze. “For trying to save him.”

  “Even if I had no idea what I was doing and really just ended up making things worse?”

  His smile broadened. “Even if.”

  Nova cleared her throat and found herself unable to hold his gaze. “I should really get back to the medical wing.”

  “Please,” he said, gesturing toward the elevator. “Don’t let me keep you another minute. The healers can be dreadfully pushy when they feel they’re in danger of being ignored.”

  Not entirely sure if she should say good-bye or thank you or something else entirely, Nova lifted her hand in an awkward wave, tucked her head down, and made her way back to the elevators. She passed the reception desk again, where Prism was now seated. She chirped a good-bye to Nova as she passed.

  Once the elevator arrived, Nova stepped inside and leaned against the wall, rubbing her forehead. Her thoughts swam with the Dread Warden’s recount of the Battle for Gatlon. Of Max’s involvement—how Hugh Everhart had put that innocent baby’s life at risk, and how Ace had done his best to kill him in order to protect himself.

  Again and again, her thoughts circled back to that broken helmet on its pedestal, as dangerous as a child’s dress-up toy.

  While somewhere within Renegade Headquarters, they had the real thing. Ace Anarchy’s helmet. Intact and waiting.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  NOVA LET THE DOOR SLAM shut behind her. Not because she was angry, but because even after the long walk back to Wallowridge, she was still dazed from the discovery of Ace’s helmet and all it meant. For her. For the Anarchists. For the Renegades, who probably had as much power contained within that one object as all their patrol units put together. They may have opted not to use it for their own purposes so far, but it still remained a possibility that they could at any time. So long as the helmet was in their possession, no one stood a chance to oppose them.