She’s right, though. It’s time. No more putting this off.
Outside the cave, there’s a little snow on the mountain. I jog down the rocky path, into the sunny day, feeling the weather warm up as I get lower. The air is crisp and clean, and I take a deep breath, wanting to savor it, or maybe wanting to stall. I stop just before I reach the small encampment that’s home to a rotating group of Vishnu Nationalist Eight soldiers. One of them spots me and waves. I wave back.
I take a deep breath. I’m going to miss my solitude.
Then I leap up in the air.
It’s been a while since I’ve flown. Even though I’m a little rusty, I’m still better at it now than I was a year ago. As I soar through clouds, feeling their chill moisture on my skin, I have to resist the urge to let out a cheer. It feels good to be out here; it feels good to be stretching my Legacies in a way that I haven’t in a while.
It feels good to be flying towards a situation that won’t be deadly.
Well, hopefully not anyway.
Of course, as soon as I have that thought, two giant paws strike me right between the shoulder blades and send me tumbling towards the earth.
I shout as I manage to right myself. As soon as I’m safely floating, the griffin makes another pass. I dodge through the clouds, avoiding its beak, its claws—laughing all the while.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say bye to you!” I yell at BK. “You were off sunning yourself somewhere, you lazy mutt!”
The Chim?ra seems to accept my apology, because instead of coming in for another attack, he flies alongside me. I hook onto one of my old friend’s massive feathered wings and let him pull me forwards for a while, laughing and stroking his fur. Before we leave India’s airspace, BK shakes loose, gives me a friendly roar and turns back.
“I’ll be home soon, BK!” I shout into the wind.
I put my arms to my sides, keep my legs close together, chin pressed to my chest. It’s my most aerodynamic posture. I turn myself invisible and settle in, my mind emptying out just like when I was scrubbing those cavern walls. I guess I’ve become the kind of guy who meditates.
It’s going to be a long flight.
They’re building the Academy in a secluded patch of forest just across the bay from San Francisco. As I descend, I can see the Golden Gate Bridge and the city beyond. Below me, newly constructed dormitories and lecture halls rise up from the greenery, cranes and cement trucks parked nearby where the work isn’t yet finished. It’s like a quaint private school, if you ignore what hides beyond the forested perimeter: an electrified fence, barbed wire, heavily armed soldiers patrolling the Academy’s only exit road.
Ostensibly, all that is to keep the human Garde safe. I wonder, though, what would happen if one of the human Garde decided they had enough schooling and wanted to wander off campus. Would the soldiers manning the gate allow that?
I don’t ponder that question for long. That’s not why I’m here.
For all their security, the Academy isn’t prepared for invisible flying men. I land on the campus without being detected.
This place was built as part of the Declaration of Garde Governance, a set of laws adopted by the United Nations after Victory Humanity Day. Teenagers from around the world will be sent here to learn how to control their powers and, eventually, to work towards the betterment of humanity. There are other laws, too—stuff about the Loric and the Mogs, rules about when Legacies can be used, that kind of thing.
To be honest, I haven’t really read them.
The campus is largely deserted right now. From what I’ve heard, the only students currently training here are the ones with no place else to go. The ones who lost their families during the invasion. The rest won’t be showing up for a few months when the place opens for real.
In the entryway, there’s a blown-up poster of an image that circulated everywhere during the cleanup effort that followed the invasion. In it, the president’s daughter stands astride a pile of rubble in New York City, using her super-strength to lift a stack of debris so that a mother clutching her two young children can safely escape from underneath. In the background, a glamorously tattered American flag waves. The news reports claimed that family was stuck down there for a week, but I always thought the whole thing looked staged. Inspiring, yeah. But staged.
Across the bottom of the poster, the slogan reads: EARTH GARDE PEACEKEEPERS—YOU ARE THE BRAVE NEW WORLD.
Still invisible, I walk through the halls of the Academy. It doesn’t take long until I hear the sounds of training. I head in that direction, knowing that’s where he’ll be.
In an outsize gymnasium, a handful of kids practice their telekinesis with each other. Pairs of them toss footballs back and forth without using their hands, and, every time a whistle blows, they add another ball to the mix. When a group lets one of their balls drop, they heave a collective groan and start running laps.
Nine observes all this from a catwalk high above. He’s dressed like a football coach—sweatpants and hoodie. One of his sleeves is pinned up on account of his missing arm. His dark hair is tied back in a ponytail. I thought maybe the government would make him cut it, but no such luck.
“Professor Nine, how long do we have to keep doing this?” one of the kids complains, and I have to stifle my laughter.
“Until I get tired of watching you screw up, McCarthy,” Nine barks back.
I float up to the catwalk and land gently next to Nine. He senses the movement and turns his head just as I become visible.
“Look at this sellout, working for the gov— Oof!”
Nine nearly clotheslines me off the catwalk with his one-armed hug. When he’s done squeezing the life out of me, he holds me out at arm’s length, studying me like I was just secretly studying him.
“Johnny Hero, holy shit.” Nine shakes his head. “You’re here.”
“I’m here.”
Detecting a lack of movement from the kids below, Nine looks down. His group of orphaned Garde have all stopped practicing to stare up at us. To stare at me in particular.
“What the hell?” he shouts. “Back to work, you maggots!”
Reluctantly, the kids do as they’re told. I can’t help but grin at Nine’s control over them. He turns back to me and pinches my cheek, where I realize I’ve got a patchy beard growing. It’s probably been a few months since I shaved.
“This peach fuzz supposed to make you incognito?” Nine asks. “It ain’t working.”
“Professor Nine, huh?” I respond, smirking.
“That’s right,” he says, puffing out his chest.
“You never even finished high school, man.”
“It’s an honorary title,” he replies with a devilish smile. “Look at you, all reclusive mountain man and shit. Where you been? You know, it wasn’t cool you skipping out on us after my crippled ass spent a week nursing you back to health.”
I snort at that. “You weren’t nursing me. You were laid up in the next bed.”
“Yeah, providing important emotional support.”
I know Nine’s joking, but there’s a bit of truth to what he says. After West Virginia, as soon as I was feeling well enough, I did bail on the others. I rub the back of my neck. “I feel bad about that. I needed to get my head right after . . .”
“Ah, shut up about it,” Nine says, patting me on the shoulder. “You’re back now.” He nods his head at the kids below, many of whom are still furtively glancing at us, screwing up their telekinetic tosses, and thus running a lot of laps. “You want to say a few words to the next generation? They’d eat that shit up. These are my favorites. The messed-up ones. They remind me of us.”
I take a step back from the catwalk’s railing and shake my head. “I’m not ready for anything like that,” I tell him. From behind my back, I pull out the small box I’ve been carrying with me since the Himalayas. “I actually came here to give you something. Lexa, too, if she’s around. . . .”