“Mr. Wren?” asked Vasquez.
Crap. “Uhh. Blue van.”
The class erupted with giggles and laughs.
“Try to stay awake please.” Mr. Vasquez smiled at him before looking to his right. “Mia?”
“May 18th 2092, Corporations declare themselves independent from the government and refuse to pay taxes. July 4th 2092, since so many people were out of work ‘cause they sent all the jobs overseas, armed citizens attacked the corporate headquarters of three major cell phone companies.” Mia hesitated, tilting her head. “Mr. Vasquez? What’s a cell phone?”
Evan forced his head to stay upright. The class’s art projects shimmering over a shelf full of holo-bars all warped and shifted into blue cargo vans. He cradled his stomach in both hands to quell a sudden onrush of wanting to throw up, and stared down. Little blue vans peeked out from under backpacks and drove between the feet of the students around him. Innocuous in appearance, for some reason, they terrified him.
Evan let off an uneasy whine, attracting the attention of kids within two desks.
“Are you okay?” asked Annika.
“Blue van,” said Brian.
“Blue van?” asked Mr. Vasquez.
Evan looked up; trickles of sweat ran down his face. The huge holo-panel behind the teacher emptied of its collage showing 300-year-old news coverage, and became a hulking cargo van with anthropomorphic features: windshield wiper eyebrows glared at him. Azure muzzle flare spat from the side windows like dragon’s breath.
“Aah!” Evan trembled.
“Blue van!” yelled Annika, looking at Mr. Vasquez. “Blue van van van.”
Evan stared at her, horrified. He needed Mom. Right now.
Mr. Vasquez waved to get his attention. “Blue van?”
Reality melted away in a swirl. The classroom gone, he floated as if astrally projecting in a scary-looking part of the city. All the buildings on one side looked shot up and abandoned, while the ones closer to him weren’t so ruined. Mom, and two other cops in black armor, walked out of a doorway. Before he could yell to her, a spray of blood exploded from her head, chest, and left leg. Evan screamed as his mother died before her body could even hit the ground.
When the white flash faded, Evan found himself lying on the floor of the classroom, one leg up, sneaker snagged on the seat of his desk. Tears streamed down his face as his body shook from full-on sobs. Ignoring everyone around him saying ‘blue van’ over and over, he tore his backpack open to get to his NetMini.
Mr. Vasquez approached, a look of concern on his face. His shoes had become small blue vans.
Evan screamed and punched the icon to call Mom. When she answered two beeps later, he hugged the device and bawled.
“Ev? What’s wrong?”
Trembling, he forced his hands away from his chest so he could see her holographic face. “M-Mom…” Seeing her alive lifted an unbearable weight from his heart. He sucked in a heavy, sniffling breath.
“Wren, please put that away…” Mr. Vasquez sighed. “You know you’re not allowed to make calls in the middle of class.”
“Mom. Look out for a blue van.” He gave her an earnest stare, whining past a clenched jaw. “Stay away from it. I keep seeing it and it won’t stop. Something bad is gonna happen.” He shuddered and lapsed into crying.
“Oh…” Mr. Vasquez paused in mid-step. “You’re clairvoyant… Agent?”
Kirsten’s illusory head rotated to face the teacher. “Lieutenant, actually.”
The class chanted “oooh, burn” at the same time.
“Mom. Please. The van is bad. It’s gonna hurt you. I saw… I saw…” He choked up again.
She spun to look at him. “Hey, kiddo. It’s okay. I’m all right. I’ll watch for a blue van. I’ll keep my eyes open, okay?”
He sniffled. “Okay. Please be careful.”
Total silence settled over the classroom.
Evan ended the call and let the NetMini slide out of his hand into his backpack. Dread refused to release its icy claws from his heart. He wrapped his arms around his legs and hid his face against his knees, sniffling. He didn’t care if they made fun of him for crying. The irresistible wave of fear permeated everything―worse than the way his room made him feel. Mom was in danger.
Annika knelt at his side and rubbed his back. The other students clustered around him. He looked up, surprised to find expressions of sympathy and curiosity. Even Shawn looked worried.
“He’s really, really, scared,” whispered a girl.
Mr. Vasquez took a knee in front of him. “Ev, what’s wrong, buddy? Do you want to go to the medical station or a quiet room?”
He pondered the quiet room… blankets and stuffed animals offered a place to hide, but the other kids around him had shocked him with their lack of mockery. He wiped tears from his cheeks.
“Is he a precog?” whispered Mia.
A hushed gasp passed among the students.
Evan stared at his sneakers. “Only for Mom… an’ Shani. I guess me, too.”
Class resumed on the floor, with everyone sitting in a circle around him.
Mr. Vasquez spoke in a soothing voice. “Some clairvoyants who develop strong emotional connections to other people have been known to have precognitive-like flashes of insight. The visions and feelings one can receive during these episodes are too real, as are the emotions associated with them.”
He closed his eyes and tried to fight off the paralyzing fear that Mom would die. It didn’t make any sense. The last time he’d felt this scared, the waking nightmare looked like a demon as big as a house. How could a boxy truck be so scary?
“Why is he still scared if he told his mom about it?” asked Shawn.
“A good question.” Mr. Vasquez leaned down and right to make eye contact with Evan. “Still okay?”
“Yeah.” Evan forced himself to look up. The urge to bawl like a four-year-old had passed, but he couldn’t stop trembling.
“Assuming that we all just witnessed a precognitive event, there are different opinions on how it works,” said Mr. Vasquez. “Some think we can alter the future if we become aware of it, while others think the vision leads to causing the very future we try to avoid. If the event were never to happen because we had forewarning, would the precog have had the vision of it in the first place?”
“Ow.” Annika rubbed her temples. “My head hurts.”
“His mom’s out in the field now,” said a dark-skinned kid named Byron. He scooted closer and put a hand on Evan’s shoulder. “Couple of us got parents out there. My dad… We’re with ya, man.”
Evan managed a weak smile. Come on, Mom.
irsten stood in the lobby of the 1UP clinic, three steps from the front door, tracing her thumb back and forth across the surface of her NetMini. Evan’s worry about a blue van rattled around in her thoughts. Perhaps a traffic accident awaited her; a moment’s hesitation might make the necessary difference. He couldn’t make himself say what he saw… did he watch me die? Nicole’s helmet turned enough to allow her to make eye contact. Squad Corporal Forrester edged past her and leaned out the front door.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Forrester. “There’s a blue van parked two spaces behind your pat-vee. Uhh, reg is coming up to one Ron Santiago, forty-one.”
The face of a brown-skinned man with short black hair and a ‘hey, I just work here’ expression appeared in hologram over her armband computer, receiving from Forrester’s armor. A Division 1 cross-link in the database reported a handful of traffic citations and three pick-ups for assault. He’d served eighteen months for one, but got off on the next two.
“I’m gonna check it out.” Kirsten stepped onto the street, hand on her E-90. “My kid’s got good instincts so far.”
“Didn’t he say run away from it?” Nicole hustled up alongside her.
“He’s also nine. He didn’t say exactly what about the van was dangerous, but it’s gotta be bad. He was terrified.” Kirsten drew the weapon, keeping it aimed d
own and to her right in a two-handed grip as she approached.
Forrester advanced to within twenty paces of the back door. “I got three adults and one child about nine to eleven.”
“I got ‘em too.” Nicole muttered something incomprehensible. “Can’t get anything on metallurgical through the van… no idea if they have weapons.”
“This don’t make sense.” Corporal Forrester shook his head. “Looks like a family out for a drive. Though, why they sittin’ on yo’ bumper, that’s a damn bit of strange.”
Kirsten reached for her comm. “Gonna check with Eze real quick. I wanna search it.”
Nicole giggled at her. “Aww, that’s cute, K. Police haven’t needed permission to search for 200 years.”
“Longer than that.” Forrester raised his rifle, not quite aiming at the van. “Your call, Ell-Tee.”
Crap. I know he didn’t mean it that way, but that felt like a gauntlet being thrown. “It might be nice to live in that kind of world, but I guess it isn’t the one we’ve got.”
“Yeah, back then everyone didn’t carry guns either.” Forrester chuckled.
Nicole overacted a gasp. “Your memory’s better than I thought.”
“Aw, go to hell, Logan. I ain’t that old.”
Kirsten walked up to the passenger door and locked eyes with a woman with light brown skin and long, straight black hair who appeared to be in her thirties. “Police, Division 0. Please step out of the vehicle, ma’am.”
A pulse of fear flashed in the woman’s eyes before she settled back to neutral.
“Wren,” said Forrester. “Just got a hit back on Santiago’s assault pops. All three were categorized as hate crimes. Every vic was psionic.”
Kirsten tensed.
The woman opened the door.
“Slow,” said Kirsten. “What are you doing parked behind our patrol craft, sitting here for so long?”
“We just pulled over to settle an argument.” The woman slipped off the passenger seat and dropped a little more than a foot to land on her sneakers. “Place we wanted to eat ain’t there no more, so we were tryin’ to pick another one.”
Ron Santiago eased out of the door, eyes locked on Kirsten. He startled and glanced to his left, no doubt at Forrester on the other side of the van. The woman’s hands crept toward her belt, where a heavy green jacket possibly concealed a weapon.
“Don’t,” said Kirsten. “Turn around, hands against the vehicle.”
“We haven’t done anything.” The woman got louder. “You’re harassing us.”
“Bullshit,” said Nicole. “They were waiting to ambush you, K. She’s freaked that you didn’t just walk past them and she’s got a Class 5 under her jacket. They’re in Harris’s cult.”
“We are not a cult,” screamed the woman. She grabbed for the gun on her hip.
Kirsten leapt at her, pulling the stunrod as she body-checked the taller woman against the van. The side door slid open, exposing a later-teenaged boy with a submachinegun. Three feet of azure muzzle flare erupted as he sprayed Nicole; a violet-blue energy field shimmered around her Psi Armor, sparking wherever projectiles hit the barrier.
“Shit!” yelled Dorian. He held his arms out and both guns lost power.
“Kid’s in the way,” yelled Forrester. “No shot.”
Ron took advantage of Forrester’s distraction and jumped into the van, climbing over the seats toward the sidewalk. Kirsten grabbed the woman’s wrist in one hand, pinning her giant pistol to the fender. The woman spit in her face, but Kirsten twisted enough to get the stunrod up and touch it to the side of her attacker’s head. Blue sparks danced around the woman’s eyes and shot out of her nostrils. Kirsten held contact for perhaps a second longer than necessary. She used the woman’s coat to wipe her cheek before letting go. Convulsing, the zealot collapsed to the ground.
Nicole let off an enraged roar. The submachinegun flew out of the teen’s grip and smashed through the second story window of a building behind her. A second later, she snarled, and the boy’s head jerked to the right, striking the side of the van door with enough force to cause an explosion of blood from his nose.
Kirsten kicked the woman’s handgun away, knocking it skittering toward the front door of 1UP. Forrester ran around the tail end of the van, rifle pointed at the teen who staggered out onto the sidewalk as if drunk.
Nicole grabbed him and hurled him to the ground before locking his arms behind him in binders. “You better hope you’re under eighteen.”
Ron jumped out of the passenger door with a shotgun. Dorian’s body erupted with blue-white energy and became transparent, numerous laser wounds in his torso and head visible. Ron managed a half second of scream before Kirsten jabbed him in the chest with the stunrod, causing him to lapse into a seizure on his feet. His eyes shifted to glare at her; foam seeped between his teeth with a clenched-jaw scream of rage.
Nicole yanked the shotgun away with a telekinetic pull, but took the liberty of cracking him across the skull with it. Kirsten caught his arm and flipped him over her hip into a chin-first landing on the metal sidewalk. She twisted his arm up in a chicken-wing, drilled a knee into his back, and reached for binders.
“K, these people tried to kill us. There’s no point arresting them. Attempted murder on a cop is a death sentence.” Nicole held her hand at the struggling teen, pinning him down with telekinetic force.
Kirsten locked the binder on the man’s wrist and gathered his other arm. “I… can’t kill people like that, Nikki.” She looked up at her friend. “One thing in the heat of the moment, kill or be killed… but execution? No. That’s not who I am.”
Boom.
Nicole flew back off her feet and skidded another ten yards into the side of 1UP, patches of blue-violet force field winking in and out beneath her.
Two small sneakers stuck up out of the gap between seats in the van.
Kirsten gawked. “Nikki!”
The redhead wheezed over the comm.
A boy, no older than ten, righted himself and pointed a hand cannon at Kirsten’s head. Blood ran down from his nose, marred by a gun-shaped bruise. “Let my papa go. ¡Ahora!” His angelic face twisted into a grimace of utter hatred.
“Kill the bitch, Julián,” yelled Ron. “Do it!”
The little lights on the gun went dark. Dorian’s spectral sigh came from somewhere behind her.
Kirsten stared into the child’s eyes. “Don’t move.”
The boy froze.
She poked deeper into his thoughts; she was a creature, a demon, a monster… a psionic that deserved to burn alive. Seeing such animosity in the soul of a boy around Evan’s age broke her heart. “Drop the gun.”
His hand flicked open, the huge Class 6 pistol clattered to the street.
“Why do you hate us?” Kirsten’s gaze lingered on him another second before she twisted to look at Nicole. “Nikki?”
“I’m hit. Fuck.” A wet cough came over the comm. “That was a lung. Least we’re already at a hospital.”
Forrester sprinted over, tackled the boy, and secured him hand and foot with plastic riot ties while calling for backup.
“You h-hellspawn… you used your demon m-magic on my s-son.” The woman thrashed about in the aftershocks of a stunrod spasm, trying to pull herself onto her knees. “Julián! You can resist! Call on God to protect you!”
Nicole groaned and sat up. A silvery spot about an inch across unpeeled from her chestplate. Visual evidence that the bullet hadn’t pierced allowed Kirsten to breathe again. Nicole wobbled upright, coughing up blood, and staggered over. Without a word, she punted the woman in the gut. “Ignorant bitch! You would rather she fucking shot him? Pull a gun on a regular cop, you get shot. You’d prefer that, wouldn’t you? Sorry to fuckin’ desecrate your kid with psionic power.” She pointed her rifle at the restrained boy. “This little angel shot me and pointed a gun at another officer. You wanna see what usually happens when fucking morons―”
“Nikki, no!” Kirsten jumped into
a tackle that knocked Nicole over into the open van door. Blood sprayed on the inside of her friend’s visor, evidence of a punctured lung. She held her enraged friend down by the shoulders. “What’s wrong with you?!”
In a second of eye contact, a telepathic link confirmed Nicole was only bluffing, planning to shoot the ground near the kid.
Ron bellowed and struggled to get up. Forrester ran over and pinned him.
Julián started screaming (mostly in Spanish) for God to help him before the demons peeled his skin off and ate him. His mother shook off the last lingering effects of the stunrod and pulled a knife from the back of her belt, out from under her jacket.
Kirsten pushed away from Nicole, who gave her a telekinetic boost back onto her feet. The supernatural speed of her motion caught the woman off guard, and allowed for an easy grab of the incoming knife-bearing hand. Kirsten wrenched the woman around and slammed her head against the side of the van. A little squeeze to the wrist caused enough pain to override her conviction. The zealot screamed and released the blade.
Kirsten seethed. She pulled up on the woman’s arm, making her scream again. “What you’re doing to that boy is child abuse. Filling his head with such horseshit!” She rammed the woman’s face into the van again by a fistful of hair. “You do realize you just tried to kill police officers, right? You should be dead right now. If I wasn’t so goddamned nice”―she smashed the woman’s face into the van again―“you’d all be dead!”
Dorian’s icy hands tried to grab Kirsten by the shoulders. “Easy. You’re about to break her arm.”
“You got shit,” said Ron Santiago. “You can’t use your satanic mind reading in court. We were just sitting here minding our own business and you attacked us. Can’t prove shit.”
Kirsten hurled the woman to the ground and grabbed at where her binders weren’t, already in use on Ron. Dammit. “Forrester.” She held the woman down while the corporal ran over and applied cuffs.
Sirens approached in the distance.
“We don’t have to.” Kirsten smiled at Ron. “Everything you just said got recorded by at least three cameras… including your little boy shooting an officer in the chest.”
Guardian Page 32