Outside the car, the guy rubbed his hands together, breath misting in front of him. “Geez, could we maybe get a mission somewhere tropical next?”
She smirked at him. “Here,” she said, holding out her hand. “You know the drill.”
“Never get tired of this either.”
As soon as he took her hand, she turned them both invisible.
Six and Sam trudged across frozen mud as they moved away from the highway, eventually crossing into Mr. Cook’s fields. Five minutes later and the little house Taylor had grown up in came into view, along with the barn. They had it on good authority that the barn was empty of animals. Mr. Cook had sold off his horses and pigs to make ends meet that winter.
“I have to say it,” Sam declared. “This is a far cry from saving the world.”
Six snorted. “No shit. But Nine says it’ll help him with their Foundation problem. The guy’s cool with it. He knows it’s coming. Anything irreplaceable he was supposed to have gotten out of the house.”
Sam shook his invisible head. “Just dark days, Six. One day you’re defeating a hostile alien race bent on world domination and the next you’re wrecking some poor schmuck’s house. Shit. Do they even get tornadoes in winter?”
Six raised her free hand, and the sky over Mr. Cook’s barn began to darken.
“They do now.”
Chapter Eight
KOPANO OKEKE
SUITE 440
THE HUMAN GARDE ACADEMY—POINT REYES, CALIFORNIA
“WHAT ABOUT THIS?” KOPANO ASKED.
Kopano emerged from his room wearing one of the outfits that his dad had picked out for him back in Lagos, when they’d been flush with cash after Kopano first developed his telekinesis. During those days, when he was working security for his father’s shady delivery service, his dad had told him he needed to look more stylish. So from the Udo Okeke small-time-criminal fashion collection came a black silk shirt tucked into pleated gray pants, the buttons of the shirt unbuttoned just enough to give a sense of Kopano’s muscles.
Kopano spun in a 360 and spread out his arms.
“Looks good, right?” he asked hopefully. “Very cool.”
Nigel, spread out on the couch in their suite’s common room, let loose with a deflating cackle.
“I hate to break this to you, mate, but you look like the bouncer at the world’s douchiest nightclub in that getup. Or, at best, like a bloody gangster.”
Kopano stroked his chin. “You don’t mean that as a compliment.”
“No!”
Kopano frowned. He phased through his clothes except for his boxer shorts and let the outfit crumple to the ground, then kicked it into a pile with the other rejects.
“You’re putting too much thought into this, brother,” Nigel said.
“It has to be right!” Kopano replied. “My father once told me, um . . . well, it doesn’t make much sense in English. And it’s kinda vulgar. But basically, the male peacock—”
“Your dad picked out those clothes for you?” Nigel interrupted. When Kopano nodded glumly at him, he went on. “Then I think we can toss his ideas in the bin along with any other silk shirts ya might got lying about.”
Kopano had gotten that advice once before. On his last day in Nigeria before taking off for the Academy, his mom had told him to leave all his father’s “wisdom” in Africa. His dad was, in fact, an unrepentant hustler whose frequent swings of fortune always kept Kopano and his two brothers on the verge of poverty. His mom made things work. Or, as she would say, God provided. That was the thing about Kopano’s mother—she was very religious. Kopano suspected that she harbored beliefs similar to those of the Harvesters—that her own son and his new friends were tainted by the devil. He knew that she prayed for his Legacies to be “cured.” She told him so in her infrequent letters.
“Don’t know why you want my advice on this anyway,” Nigel grumbled as he poked a finger through one of the many moth-eaten holes in his thrift-store Black Flag tank top. “I’m not exactly the foremost authority on how to dress to impress a bird, eh?”
Still thinking about his parents, Kopano replied, “Wisdom can come from unlikely sources, my friend.” He clapped his hands and grinned. “You have great style. I always thought so, back when I first saw you in that vision. It was like—this dude here, he is out of a movie. No one can be that cool.”
Nigel smirked. “What kinda movie?”
“You know, one of those British ones where everyone is a robber and talks fast and shoots each other.”
“Yeah,” Nigel replied, nodding. “Yeah, cool. I’ll take it. But maybe you should stop thinking about movies and appearances and all that and just try to look normal. Taylor seems like she appreciates normal.”
Kopano snapped his fingers. “See? What did I tell you? Good advice.”
Kopano stepped through the wall and back into his room, once again rummaging through his closet. He pulled on a worn pair of blue jeans and a green waffle-knit sweater. It’s what he would’ve worn if this was any other day and not Christmas Eve when he had something special planned. It seemed low effort but . . .
“Not bad,” Nigel said when Kopano returned to the common room. “At least you look like yourself. And like you aren’t trying to impress anybody.”
“But I am trying to impress her,” Kopano replied.
Nigel closed his eyes and massaged his eyelids. “Oi, but you don’t want her to know you’re trying to impress her.”
Kopano flopped down in a chair across from Nigel. “You know, if you’d just asked Ran for me—”
“Told you, I’m not into the wingman thing,” Nigel replied. “I ask Ran to ask Taylor if she’d be interested if Kopano came courting, next thing, we’re in one of those boring Jane Austen novels, eh? No. Not for me. I’m staying neutral in all this.”
Kopano squinted at his friend. Back in Lagos, any one of Kopano’s boys would’ve been happy to talk him up to a girl he liked. It was expected. Of course, Nigel was much, much different from his friends back home. This wasn’t the first time Nigel had mentioned “remaining neutral.” Kopano still didn’t understand what exactly he meant. Who did Nigel have to stay neutral for? It’s not like Kopano was in some kind of war.
Before Kopano could say anything more, the door to Caleb’s room opened and he came out with a duffel bag tossed over one shoulder. He nodded to them both and set the bag down with a sigh. Caleb had been much more social since they’d all run off together and nearly gotten killed. Kopano had also noticed a sharp decline in the amount of behind-closed-doors conversations Caleb had with his various duplicates. Despite the newfound friendliness, Caleb always seemed to get quiet when Kopano would bring up his crush on Taylor. Kopano had heard that some Americans could be kind of prudish. He chalked it up to that.
And anyway, it struck Kopano that Caleb had a lot on his mind the last few weeks. He was, after all, one of the few students who was allowed to visit home for the holidays, even if just for a couple of days. The Fugitive Six were all still on probation for their escape from campus, so it must have been true what everyone said about Caleb—his uncle, the retired general who helped save the world, got him preferential treatment.
“Guess it’s time for me to go,” Caleb said with a forlorn look down at his bag.
“Are you excited?” Kopano asked with raised eyebrows, even though it was obvious Caleb was far from it. “When’s the last time you saw your family?”
Caleb thought about it. “After the invasion, I guess, but before the Academy opened.” He glanced at Nigel. “Back when they had us basically quarantined.”
“Fun times, those,” Nigel said dryly.
“Such a long time!” Kopano replied. “You must miss them.”
Caleb thought that over for a second. “Actually, I’d kinda gotten used to them not being around. Easier to . . . I don’t know. Not think about them?”
“Shit, my parentals haven’t even sent me a holiday card,” Nigel said. “And that’s the way I pr
efer it.”
“Are they bad people?” Kopano asked Caleb. He knew enough about Nigel’s parents from the stories he told about them shuffling him off to boarding school and forgetting about him, but Caleb hardly talked about his family. The only thing Kopano really knew was that they were all in the military and very strict.
“No,” Caleb answered quickly. “No, they’re fine. They’re just . . .” He shrugged. “It’s hard to explain.”
“I’m jealous,” Kopano replied. “You get to go home and show your family what a tremendous Garde you’ve become. If I was you, I’d be strutting around Nebraska like I owned the place.”
Caleb shook his head. “I’m not really a . . . strutter.”
“You’ll be fine, mate,” Nigel said, sounding as sincere as he ever did. He stood up and awkwardly embraced Caleb, which seemed to surprise both of them. “Don’t let ’em get to you. And don’t bottle anything up. That’s when the trouble starts, eh?”
“Yeah, it’s only a couple of days,” Caleb reminded himself. “Anyway, what’re you guys going to do for the holiday break?”
“Four whole days without classes—ol’ Professor Nine’s so generous,” Nigel replied. “Probably sleep a bunch. Maybe work on my guitar.”
He said that last bit with a wink at Caleb, and the duplicator smiled back conspiratorially. Kopano knew the two of them were working on some music project upstairs in the empty suites, but he hadn’t been asked to join, so he didn’t stick his nose in.
“I am going to cook Christmas rice,” Kopano declared. “And, if I’m lucky, some romance.”
Nigel clapped a hand over Kopano’s face. “Never say that again.”
Caleb swallowed, looking at them. “Oh, you hanging out with, uh, Taylor . . . ?”
Kopano nodded. “If everything goes as plan— Uh, Caleb?”
Caleb’s face had gone literally blurry, like a transparent copy had been placed over him but not quite lined up. It was a duplicate trying to emerge from his body. Caleb squinted and, before the clone could pop fully loose, it evaporated like a ghost. Kopano and Nigel eyed him as he scratched sheepishly at the back of his neck.
“Nerves, I guess,” Caleb explained. He glanced at the wall clock and picked up his bag. “I better get going. You know how security gets when you keep the helicopter waiting.”
“Happy Christmas!” Kopano yelled, and wrapped Caleb up in a hug, slapping his back.
“Yeah,” Caleb replied. “You, too.”
The week before, Kopano had been aghast when he’d first seen the dining hall’s holiday menu. A boring turkey dinner? Basically the same turkey dinner they had served a month ago for American Thanksgiving? That wouldn’t do at all.
“Where is the rice?” Kopano asked anyone who would listen. “How can they not serve Christmas rice?”
Most of the other students looked baffled when he complained about the rice, but Dr. Chen had taken an interest. Kopano was in her cultural relativity seminar that semester—the class was meant to help them understand the wide variety of UN communities they’d be assisting once they were full-fledged Earth Garde. Everyone needed to take it before graduating.
“This might be a good opportunity to learn about each other’s cultures,” she said. “I could probably arrange something with the kitchen staff . . .”
And she had. Over the last week, students were allowed to file ingredient requests and sign up for time in the kitchen, where they could then prepare a traditional dish from their homeland that would be shared by the other students on Christmas. Doing so was good for extra credit in Dr. Chen’s class, assuming they also gave a short presentation on the food’s significance.
“Psh, extra credit.” Isabela had rolled her eyes when Kopano told her about the concept. “What does that matter? Like these silly grades will ever mean anything.”
But not everyone was as cynical as Isabela. A handful of other students signed up for kitchen time, including some who weren’t even in Dr. Chen’s class.
Christmas Eve was Kopano’s turn in the kitchen. He was happy to take one of the later slots, when things would be quiet and peaceful. Conveniently, after her staged altercation with Isabela, Kopano knew that Taylor would be just finishing up her shift cleaning the dining hall not long after he was to begin.
So Kopano worked slowly. In one pot he cooked a whole chicken seasoned with curry, thyme, and onions. Next to that, he fried up two purple slices of beef liver, which would get cubed up and added to the rice. The chewy bits of meat were always Kopano’s favorite part of the dish, but some of the other students in class had made grossed-out faces when he mentioned liver.
“That kind of reaction,” Dr. Chen explained, “is exactly why we have this class.”
Still, Kopano wanted to get the liver part done before Taylor showed up. He didn’t want to gross her out.
Kopano looked over his shoulder to where the gift he’d gotten for Taylor sat on a clean counter, far enough away to avoid catching any grease spatters. He swallowed back his nerves, worried again that she would think it was stupid—his romance adviser Nigel probably would’ve called it lame, which was why Kopano had made a point of not showing him.
While the liver cooked, Kopano let his eyes wander to the dishes his classmates had made. Most of them had gone with desserts. Simon, the French guy who could transfer his knowledge through objects, apparently had some secret pastry-chef skills. He’d made something called la bûche de Noël—it looked to Kopano like a giant Ho Ho surrounded by little mushrooms made of frosting. He started to pick a piece of frosting loose from the top but turned his hand transparent at the last second, resisting the urge. What would it look like if Taylor came in and found him scarfing down all these desserts?
Well, maybe they could just turn it into her latest act of rebellion.
Ever since this plan to infiltrate the Foundation kicked off, Kopano had been seeing less of Taylor. He knew that she needed to seem isolated, even from the other Fugitive Six, if they were going to convince the Foundation to approach her again. The shady organization had to think it was their idea, like they were rescuing Taylor from a life she hated. But that didn’t make it easier for Kopano. He and Taylor had arrived at the Academy together, had always relied on each other—it was easy to forget that Taylor was just acting and to start to feel like they’d really drifted apart.
And what would happen if this plan actually worked? The Foundation would take Taylor and then . . . what? Kopano would be stuck back at the Academy, with nothing to do but hope things turned out okay. Professor Nine insisted they had agents in the field who could watch over Taylor, people he trusted, but that didn’t make Kopano feel much better. It was a dangerous idea, one he probably wouldn’t have gone along with if it hadn’t been Taylor’s plan to begin with.
Kopano was deep in thought, chopping onions and occasionally wiping his runny eyes on his shoulder sleeve, when a voice startled him.
“I always knew you were a big softie, but those are a lot of tears . . .”
Taylor stood in the doorway, watching him with a tired smile. She wore a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a tank top along with a formfitting pair of jeans. Her blond hair was held back by a bandanna. Even though she was pushing a bucket of dirty water with a mop, the sight of Taylor made Kopano’s mouth go dry. She looked beautiful even when she’d spent the last few hours cleaning up spilled food.
“It’s the onions,” he insisted with a defiant sniffle. “The onions. I swear.”
“Uh-huh,” Taylor replied. She used her telekinesis to send her mop and bucket into the adjacent supply closet, then wandered over to Kopano. “What kind of weird cookies are you making that have onions in them?”
“I’m not making cookies,” Kopano answered with a dismissive wave of his knife. “I’m making Christmas rice.”
“Oh. Everybody else made desserts.” Taylor poked around one of the nearby shelves, stuck her hand under a piece of wax paper, and pulled out a chunk of baklava.
> “You think just because now you’re the Academy’s resident bad girl you can raid the kitchen whenever you want and devour the hard work of your classmates, eh?”
Taylor chewed thoughtfully. “Yep. You want one?”
“Obviously.”
Taylor reached back to the tray and pulled out another cookie, then floated it out in front of Kopano’s face.
“You know,” Taylor began with a crafty smile, “Isabela says you’re one of my stalkers.”
About to bite into the cookie, Kopano let out a sharp cough and had to turn his head away. He took a moment to compose himself while Taylor tried to stifle laughter. Whenever he was embarrassed, it was Kopano’s strategy to bull forward with humor and bluster—he’d picked that up from his dad.
“Why would she say such a thing?” Kopano asked with hammed-up offense. He plucked the cookie out of the air and popped it into his mouth.
Taylor shrugged playfully. “I don’t know. Because you have a habit of popping up? Like, after I made that scene in chemistry class and had to help Professor Burroughs inventory the supplies, you just happened to develop a sudden interest in obscure chemical compounds.”
“That was for practice!” Kopano exclaimed. He waved his hand back and forth to demonstrate. “I wanted to see if there were any substances I couldn’t pass through. Serious science stuff.”
“Uh-huh,” Taylor replied. “A likely story.”
Kopano pretended to be sullen and went back to chopping his onions. That Isabela always had a way of saying whatever was on her mind . . . which was usually gossip, or else her many theories about what the other students were secretly feeling or thinking. Most of the time, though, she was right. She had certainly nailed Kopano. He had been arranging ways to bump into Taylor around campus.
He didn’t care that Isabela had called him out. On the contrary. This was good news—it meant she and Taylor were talking about him. Taylor had noticed.
“We used to be able to hang out more,” Kopano said. He brushed his chopped onions into a frying pan, where they began to sizzle. “I know why we can’t as much these days. Because you are supposed to be a cynical and angry young lady. Chilling with me would be bad for your reputation. All you would do is laugh and smile all the time and say things like ‘Oh, Kopano, you are so funny and handsome.’ This would of course blow your cover.”
Fugitive Six Page 7