Generation One LLR

by Pittacus Lore

  Acquiring the target was worth the exposure.

  And, if all went well, the whole operation would simply be blamed on the Harvesters.

  Three days ago was Einar’s eighteenth birthday. He’d spent it among these sweat-stinking cretins. He hadn’t told anyone, not even Rabiya.

  As a belated gift, he hoped to see some of these Harvesters die.

  Einar speed-walked towards the ridge with his Harvester escort. Once there, he crouched down in the grass, careful not to get any dirt on his suit. He opened his attaché and took out his goggles. They were bulky things and Einar tsked in annoyance as one of the straps caught on his ear.

  “Here, let me help,” said the Harvester. He straightened the strap on the back of Einar’s head before Einar could stop him.

  Einar turned to regard the Harvester. His eyes looked bulbous and huge with the goggles on.

  “Thank you,” said Einar coldly.

  “No problem,” the guy said. “That accent. You Russian or something? Been meaning to ask.”

  “Icelandic,” Einar replied.

  He turned to watch the road, waiting for the van to come into view. The goggles were not night vision. They did not magnify Einar’s vision. He stared into the darkness.

  If his target came down that road, he would know.

  “Never met anyone from Iceland before,” the Harvester continued. “That’s cool.”

  “What is your name?” Einar asked.

  “Silas.”

  “You are talkative, Silas,” Einar observed. “Does the dark make you nervous?”

  Silas laughed. “Hell no, man. I’m just making conversation.”

  Einar concentrated on this young man. Silas’s palms began to sweat. His stomach turned over, clenched in a knot. His heart was pounding now. Was that movement in the grass? What were those shadows? Einar smiled thinly when he sensed Silas creep a little closer to him, as if for protection.

  “Actually, it is a little freaky out here,” Silas said, his voice cracking. “Shit, man. I’m weirded out.”

  “Be calm,” Einar said, and released his hold on the Harvester. It was so easy to put the fear in people when they didn’t know what was happening.

  Headlights appeared in the distance. Einar turned his attention to the road below. The van approached . . .

  “What . . . ?” Einar mumbled.

  He struck the side of his goggles with the heel of his hand. What he saw didn’t seem possible. He checked the diagnostic in the bottom-left corner of the display. Everything appeared normal; the goggle’s batteries were fully charged.

  The reading had to be correct.

  Einar’s lips quirked in a bemused smile. Through his goggles, he watched six vivid blue energy signatures pass by on the road.

  He pulled his walkie-talkie from his hip. “Rabiya?”

  His partner came back a moment later, her voice soft as always. “Yes, Einar?”

  “There are six coming your way. Confirm the target is among them before engaging.”

  “Yes, Einar.”

  Calmly, Einar returned the goggles to his attaché. He felt Silas’s eyes upon him, his mouth agape.

  “You say six, fella?” Silas asked. “Six of—of those things down there in that van?”

  “Yes. Six of them without an escort,” Einar replied. He turned on his heel and headed back for camp. “Your men must arm themselves and prepare to engage.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  TAYLOR COOK

  MAR A VISTA—CALIFORNIA

  TAYLOR GOT AN UNEASY FEELING IN THE PIT OF her stomach as soon as the taillights came into view.

  They were on a back road headed south from the Academy. Probably gorgeous in daylight, but empty and ominous at night. Taylor couldn’t understand where her anxiety was coming from. She’d grown up in big, empty expanses like this. She’d never been unnerved by stretches of lonely country.

  That was before the attack on her farm. Before the nightmares.

  Isabela had the radio on. Bright pop music that seemed at odds with the night. Nigel agreed.

  “Turn that rubbish off,” he complained again and again.

  “I am the driver,” Isabela replied. “This means I choose the music.”

  “Bloody hell, let me drive then.”

  “No. You would kill us all. Drive on the wrong side of the road or something. Or poison our characters with your terrible punk rock.”

  “Aw, your character’s already poisoned enough, darling.”

  “You should broaden your horizons, Isabela,” Kopano said. “Nigel’s music is awesome.” Isabela shot him a withering look and he held up his hands. “What you’re playing is fine, too.”

  Taylor looked over her shoulder. Ran sat cross-legged in the back, the bumpy riding not at all disturbing her meditation. Caleb sat next to her, his hand holding one of the cargo straps so he didn’t slide across the van whenever Isabela took a turn too fast. He was watching her. Taylor still didn’t know what to make of him. He had a crush on her? He was mentally disturbed? He was a sort of dorky boy from the Midwest? She caught his eye and immediately worried such a look would be misinterpreted.

  “Everything okay?” Caleb asked her. He must have read the unease on her face.

  “Yeah,” she replied, and forced a smile.

  “America is much bigger than I thought,” Kopano observed cheerily. He’d wedged himself in between Isabela and Taylor, his butt on Isabela’s armrest, his arm across the back of Taylor’s chair. “Do you know I used to think one could drive from New York to California in a day?”

  Taylor chuckled as she glanced up at him, relaxing a little. “Maybe if you drove like Isabela.”

  Isabela nodded firmly. “Yes. I could do that.”

  “Are we there yet?” Kopano asked.

  “God, you are like a child,” Isabela snapped. “It was an hour when you asked five minutes ago. Do the math, big boy.”

  “Don’t make her turn the car around,” Taylor said with a smirk.

  “Look!” Kopano said, pointing through the windshield. “An accident?”

  The taillights.

  Kopano was the first one to spot them. Up ahead, a beat-up station wagon was parked across the center lane. The hood was popped, the headlights on, two silhouettes visible as they peered down at the engine. A curl of steam or smoke emanated from the open hood.

  Immediately, Isabela stepped on the brakes. As the van slowed to a crawl, Isabela turned down the music.

  “Looks like a breakdown,” Caleb said.

  “We should help,” Kopano put in.

  “I actually know a few things about cars,” Caleb added. “Used to hang around with the base mechanics—”

  “Should we really be stopping?” Taylor asked, embarrassed by the quaking unease in her voice. “We don’t know these people.”

  Kopano gave her a surprised look. “Seriously? We just drive by them?”

  “Need I remind you, we aren’t supposed to be away from the Academy?” Isabela said sharply. “In San Francisco, we will blend into the crowd. But out here? What if that is someone from the school?”

  Caleb squinted into the headlights as the van creaked closer to the breakdown. “If they’re from the Academy, they’ll probably recognize us anyway.”

  Nigel glanced at Ran. She peered through the windshield with an arched eyebrow, her lips pursed. He turned to the others. “If they aren’t from the Academy, then what are they doing out here?”

  “Driving,” Kopano said with a laugh. “Going to the beach? Hiking? You guys are being paranoid.”

  “I would think it best if we avoid being seen this close to the Academy,” Ran said.

  That settled matters for Isabela. She leaned over the wheel. “Everyone duck down and I will drive us on the shoulder.”

  Before Isabela could do that, one of the people standing by the station wagon jogged into their headlights and waved. Taylor relaxed a bit when she saw it was just a girl, no more than a few years older than herself.
The girl’s pretty face was framed by a hijab, the dark fabric gaudily bedazzled. She wore a dress that covered her from neck to ankle, obviously expensive and fashionable. Completely normal, thought Taylor.

  “Hey! Can you help us?” the girl yelled, standing right in their way.

  Kopano laughed. “A stranded girl! And you cruel people wanted to flee the scene.”

  Isabela put the van in park and rolled down her window. The girl hustled over, smiling sweetly as she got on her tiptoes and looked into the van.

  “Thank you, thank you,” she said breathlessly. “My dad and I have been stuck out here for like an hour. We just need a jump.”

  “I do not know what that is,” Isabela said.

  While they talked, Taylor found herself not looking at the girl but at the burly shape of her father. She couldn’t see much of him besides that he had a tangled mane of curly hair. As he fiddled with the engine, his arms briefly came into the light. Taylor spotted a strange smudge of grease on his forearm. She leaned forward, trying to get a better look . . .

  “Do you have cables?” Caleb asked. He got up and opened the back of the van. “Hang on. Let me come take a look.”

  As Caleb brushed by him, Nigel pressed up against the window. His head tilted. Something moved out there. He was sure of it. He cupped his hands around his eyes, trying to see through the glass into the dark.

  “Oi, Ran . . . ,” he said quietly.

  The Japanese girl perked up and came to his side.

  “Someone’s out there,” Nigel whispered.

  Meanwhile, as Caleb climbed out of the back of the van, the girl waved to her father. “These are the ones, Dad! They’re going to help us out!”

  These are the ones. What a strange way to say that. The girl’s words set off Isabela’s finely tuned bullshit detector. She shot a glance in Taylor’s direction, but Taylor was too busy staring wide-eyed at the girl’s “father” to notice.

  The man had straightened up from his hunched position over the station wagon. He waved to his daughter and his arm came fully into the light. Taylor immediately recognized the symbol tattooed on the inside of his forearm.

  Circle. Snake. Scythe.

  “Isabela! We have to go!” Taylor screamed.

  But it was too late.

  As Taylor turned to Isabela, panicked, the other girl smoothly pulled a pistol from within the folds of her dress and shot Isabela in the neck.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EINAR

  MAR A VISTA—CALIFORNIA

  HIS ATTACHÉ IN HAND, EINAR WALKED SLOWLY down the dark road towards the sounds of chaos. Shouting, the roar of motorcycle engines, the electronic buzzing of the Inhibitor-2a’s. Headlights from dozens of motorcycles flashed, creating a strobe-light effect in the otherwise peaceful night. Einar scratched his cheek thoughtfully.

  Perhaps he should have waited for a more opportune moment to make his move.

  The Academy Garde were trapped. They hunkered down around the van they’d been driving, fending off an assault from the first wave of Harvesters. Meanwhile, a dozen bikers rode in a circle around the area, fencing them in.

  If he’d had the Blackstone Group out here instead of these half-witted trailer trash, this battle would already be over.

  Reverend Jimbo had almost fifty men at his disposal. Einar had been worried about how their numbers had been growing.

  Suddenly, they didn’t seem like enough.

  “I thought you said there were only six of them!” Reverend Jimbo yelled in his ear. The old man walked next to Einar, nervous but excited, brandishing a chrome-plated six-shooter. Silas stood on his other side, watching the fight with wide eyes.

  Only. Einar sniffed. As if six Garde, even poorly trained ones, could ever be taken lightly. Oh well. It wouldn’t be long now. One way or another, his mission to America was at an end. After tonight, he could wash his hands of the Harvesters and their ignorance.

  “There are only six of them,” Einar replied to the reverend.

  “Then why do I see—?” The reverend squinted into the distance, trying to count. “A whole goddamn bunch?”

  “One of them duplicates,” Einar said.

  “He does what?”

  “He produces clones of himself.”

  “That’s the unholiest thing I’ve heard yet.”

  Einar suppressed a sigh. He had read the file on Caleb Crane and found his Legacy to be an enviable one. According to his dossier, Caleb deferred to authority and followed instructions readily. Strange, then, to find him out here, apparently engaged in an attempt to escape from the Academy. Einar did recall some mention of instability with the boy. Possible multiple personality disorder. That would make sense, considering his Legacy.

  “If your men can isolate the real duplicator and render him unconscious, the clones will disappear,” Einar said.

  “They’ll do more than render that abomination unconscious,” the reverend replied. He cocked his pistol.

  Einar turned to glare at the reverend.

  “I told you. No lethal weapons until I have what I’m after.”

  “Right, right. Your precious field test,” Reverend Jimbo said with a snort. “Son, I’m grateful for the support and all, but I can’t promise my boys won’t get tired of batting these devils around with your little toys.”

  Einar took a step close to the reverend, focused his power and coaxed a feeling of fear out of the older man. Intimidation. If he pressed any harder, he could have the reverend on the ground praying to him. But there wasn’t time for that.

  With a shaky hand, Reverend Jimbo eased down the hammer on his pistol.

  “I’ll—I’ll make sure my men don’t fly off the handle,” the reverend said meekly. He waved Silas and one of the other Harvesters towards the battle. “Sorry,” he muttered to Einar, clearly unsure why he was apologizing.

  “Mm,” Einar replied noncommittally. He turned to watch a burly biker sneak up on a Caleb and fire an Inhibitor-2a leash at him.

  The Inhibitor version 2a. One of Sydal Corp’s finest creations. It then fired a collar made of a proprietary mercury-based alloy that snapped into place around the target’s neck and self-welded shut. If knocked off course—say, by telekinesis—the weapon’s sensors automatically recalibrated for the target’s throat by homing in on the heat of the carotid artery. Once attached, the collar remained connected to the crossbow by high-strength tensile wire, delivering shocks on command to the target. The electric bursts were enough to disrupt any Legacies.

  Einar would know; he had been on the receiving end many times during the weapon’s testing. He remembered bitterly how an early version had nearly decapitated him.

  The Inhibitor fired by the biker snapped around Caleb’s neck. He watched Caleb convulse from the shock. Then, the collar dropped uselessly to the ground; Caleb had disappeared. A clone, then. Not the real deal.

  As the biker reeled his inhibitor back in, he was struck in the chest by a vicious punch to the sternum. The biker flew backwards, slammed into the van the Garde had been driving and lay still.

  That was Kopano Okeke who threw the haymaker. Einar’s intelligence on him was far from complete. The exact nature of the Nigerian’s Legacies was unknown to the Academy, and thus unknown to Einar’s employer. Einar didn’t need reports to tell him that Kopano’s strength was enhanced. He could see that for himself.

  That would be useful.

  Two more Harvesters armed with Sydal Corp tranquilizer guns fired at Kopano. The darts bounced harmlessly off him. A moment later, a glowing orb landed at the feet of the two Harvesters. They barely had a chance to register the projectile before it exploded, throwing the two bikers to the side of the road.

  Ran Takeda. And if she was here, then it was likely Nigel Barnaby was as well. Skilled combatants, survivors of the massacre at Patience Creek. Einar might not have initiated this operation had he known they were present. The pair crouched for cover at the back of the van, using the doors for a shield. As Einar watched, Ran
picked up a handful of gravel and charged it with her Legacy. She chucked the stones at another pack of Harvesters, the resulting concussive blast knocking them off their motorcycles. Word had reached the Foundation that Ran had sworn off using her Legacies. Apparently, she had chosen tonight to make an exception.

  “My men are getting destroyed out there!” Reverend Jimbo screamed.

  “Yes. They are very poorly trained,” Einar replied as he continued to scan the battlefield.

  There. Near the driver side door of the van, Einar could see a trio of three Calebs standing shoulder to shoulder. A human wall. They were protecting someone. Through their legs, Einar could see a body in the road, a second person crouching over it. An injured person and a healer.

  “I see you, Taylor,” Einar said to himself. He waited a moment for a Harvester on a motorcycle to pass, then darted through their snarling chopper perimeter and headed towards the battle.

  “Where are you going?” Reverend Jimbo shouted.

  “To finish this.”

  Time was of the essence. Already, the frustrated and frightened Harvesters were abandoning the nonlethal weapons he’d provided them with and were turning to more conventional, and deadlier, methods of assault. Although any injuries would surely be blamed on the Harvesters, a bunch of dead Garde would not be a welcome development. This mission would already bring too much attention.

  A group of Harvesters armed with tire irons and baseball bats had descended upon Kopano. He blocked each of their attacks with a forearm or a shoulder or, in one case, his face. None of the blows hurt him. Einar watched as, one by one, Kopano knocked the Harvesters out with powerful uppercuts.

  “Leave us alone!” the young man shouted, a note of fear in his voice despite his near invulnerability. “Leave us—!”

  Kopano hesitated. He had spotted Einar walking towards him. A strange sight—a young man in a suit and tie, holding a briefcase, walking calmly through the fray.

  Meanwhile, a Harvester advanced on Kopano from behind. He carried an old-fashioned sawed-off shotgun. Einar wondered if that would be enough to break Kopano’s thick skin.