Fang: A Maximum Ride Novel (13 page)

52

“OKAY, TRY THIS ONE,” Gazzy said, handing a hot rod magazine to Iggy. Gazzy guided his finger to touch the photograph on the page.

“Mostly red, I can feel that part — but let me try without touching it.” He concentrated. “Hmm, nice. Sort of curvy. But not like a Porsche. Wait … No, it’s really low and flat but … not a Lamborghini. How about … Let me cheat a little here… .” He touched the picture again. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and say — Bugatti?”

Gazzy jumped up. “No
way!
I can’t believe you got that!”

“Hey guys! You’ve gotta come out here!” Dylan called urgently from the deck.

“What now?” Nudge asked, pulling her earbuds out. She was in the middle of a
What Not to Wear
download marathon.

“Probably another Eraser attack,” Iggy said, sounding bored.

Angel scampered out into the blackness, ready to deliver orders from the deck if necessary.

“Ugh!” Nudge whined. “I wish they’d wait until I finish this episode.”

“Seriously, guys,” Dylan insisted, but he sounded excited. “The sky is amazing tonight. Check it out!”

“Oh, joy.” Iggy scowled, then softened his tone. “Go ahead, Gaz,” he said. “All this vision stuff tonight has tired me out.”

Minutes later, the flock had peeled themselves away from what they had been doing and were stepping out onto the deck in the cool, clear night. Even Iggy decided to join the crew. Dylan was flat on his back. The deck was only just as wide as he was tall.

“Come down here,” he instructed. “It’s better this way. You don’t have to crane your neck. Can you believe what’s going on up there?”

“I don’t see much going on,” Nudge said. “There’s a lot of stars, though.”

“Jeb taught us the constellations,” Angel said, a little wistfully, after they had all situated themselves. “A long time ago.”

“What’re they?” Dylan asked blankly.

“Gosh, you
do
need help, don’t you?” Gazzy commented. “You should have gone to Max’s Home School.”

Dylan chuffed. “Yeah. A little late for that.”

“Well, for starters, there’s the Little Dipper.” It was Jeb’s voice from inside. He’d appeared behind the screen door quietly. “Can you see it, guys? Do you remember?”

“Yeah. I used to call them the Dipsticks,” Gazzy reminisced. “Back when I was a dumb little kid.”

“I know Orion!” Nudge bragged. “I see his belt over there at about two o’clock.”

“Jeb, can you show us again?” Angel asked, sounding more like her younger, more innocent self. “Like Cassiopeia, Andromeda, Cancer, and stuff?”

“I’m totally confused about what you guys are talking about,” Dylan said.

“With you on that, Dyl.” Iggy put his feet on the wooden deck rail and his hands behind his head, staring up at nothing.

“Can’t you see that meteor?” Dylan asked. “Over there. See? The flame is almost, like,
greenish
… . Whoa! It’s getting bigger — man, how can you
not
see that?”

Iggy snickered. “Dude, even
I
know that shooting stars last for like, less than a second.”

“Oooh!” Angel cried, just as the flaming tail appeared in the sky, fast as a flash of lightning.

“Nice one!” Nudge cheered. “How’d you know it was coming, Dylan?”

“I could just see it. I don’t know how you guys missed — ooh, there’s another one coming! Right over there!” Dylan pointed left with conviction. Everyone was quiet.

Iggy broke the silence. “I can see the International Space Station too,” he said.

Seconds later, they all drew in their breaths as another flash exploded in the sky. “Must be a meteor shower,” Jeb speculated.

Dylan nodded. “Yep — yeah, I see one — no, two, three more coming! Look!”

Jeb slid the door open and took a step out onto the deck, fascinated.

“One,” he counted as they appeared several moments later. “Two, three.”

Gazzy gave a low whistle.

“Dylan,” Angel asked very quietly. “Can you see the future?”

Dylan paused. “I … I don’t know,” he answered. “I guess I just see really well.” He squinted. “And I hate to say this, Iggy, but … I actually
can
see the International Space Station.”

“Cool, man,” Iggy said. “Hey, by the way, can you spare one of your superhero eyeballs for me, Dyl?”

Dylan laughed. “All yours, Iggy.”

“If you can see so well, Dylan,” Angel asked curiously, “why didn’t you see those Erasers coming?”

For that, Dylan had no answer.

53

“THERE IS NO WAY those people aren’t genetically modified,” I said, taking another handful of popcorn. In the other city that never sleeps, we weren’t sleeping. In fact, we were at one of the Cirque du Soleils, watching some little Chinese girls fold themselves into knots while spinning plates on their feet and balancing balls on their heads.

“It’s completely unnatural,” Fang agreed.

“So they’re mutants, they’re weird, and here they are, holding down jobs. There is hope after all.” I ate more popcorn, unable to tear my eyes away from people doing stuff that I just couldn’t believe they could do.

We’d just come from the MGM resort, where it had happened to be Cub Day — they’d had two super-cute lion cubs playing in a huge glassed-in area.

“Now, why couldn’t they have put just a smidge of lion DNA into our mix?” I’d asked. “That would be so cool.”

Fang had groaned. “That’s all we need. Another two percent of something else in our genes. Excellent.”

“Still, just a touch of lion — we’d be even stronger, faster,” I had said wistfully. “And more graceful.”

“You’re already strong, fast, and … somewhat graceful, sometimes,” Fang had said. “You want
fuzzy ears?
”

I had dropped the subject. But now, looking at act after act of inhumanly flexible and powerful humans, I almost wanted just a little touch of something else.

“I’m thinking those kids have extra vertebrae,” I whispered to Fang.

“Be happy with your ninety-eight-two-percent split,” he whispered back. “Next thing you know, you’ll be grafted with, like, DNA from an
elephant seal.
Or a bear. ‘Where’s Max? Oh, she’s
hibernating,
’ “ Fang said. I had just taken a sip of soda, and now my graceful self snorted it through my nose.

Max.

“What?” Oh. Voice. ’
Ssup?

Get out of there now.

Without hesitation I got to my feet. Fang looked at me in surprise, saw the expression on my face, and immediately got up too. I did a fast scan and saw guards at each entrance, but they didn’t seem to be paying attention to us.

So where …

Max, up!

I crouched down, ready to jump into the air and to take flight at the slightest sign of danger, but in the next second, strong arms grabbed me.

54

“DON’T STRUGGLE,” said the guy holding me — the “Russian Superman.” He had an act with huge rubber bands attached to his belt. He’d been jumping high and “flying” over the audience off and on all night. Now he pulled me way up to the top of the enormous tent, and the bands tightened so we were hovering there.

The audience below was oohing and aahing at the lucky girl in the audience who got to fly with the Russian Superman. Spotlights were trained on us, and the audience was going crazy.

“Who do you work for?” I growled, gauging my options.

“This is for your own good,” he said, which was, in case you’re wondering,
the wrong answer
.

Time to blow my cover as Ordinary Teenager. I raised one knee high, then smashed my foot backward as hard as I could, connecting with his kneecap, hearing it snap. The Russian Superman stifled a shriek, and his hold on me lessened just slightly.

Slightly was enough. I jerked my arms out sideways, and his fingers scrabbled to keep me, without success. I started to drop, and people in the audience started to scream, waiting for the poor girl to go splat in the center ring.

But of course it took only a second for me to pop out my wings, pushing downward hard so that I rose up before I’d even gotten close to the ground.

Now the audience was really going wild — shouting, clapping, whistling at the Amazing Winged Girl from the Cirque du Soleil.

The Amazing Winged Girl needed a way out. The Russian Superman, holding his knee, was staring at me in shock. I tried to shade my eyes to see Fang, then another huge burst of excitement came from the crowd, and I saw him flying up to me, outlined in the spotlights.

We can’t hover, so to stay aloft we have to move forward. I made small circles near the top of the tent, searching for an escape route, trying to stay away from the backstage crew up in the metal catwalks high above the ground.

Fang swooped low, making people scream, and then swooped back up again. He passed me, showed me the switchblade he’d pulled from his cargo pocket, and headed toward a tent wall.

I was zigzagging as I saw Fang grab a rope against the wall, hang on, and slice through the heavy plasticized nylon of the tent.

There was tremendous applause — we were a very popular act. Then an all-too-familiar sound hissed past my ear, and I dropped fast, swung around, and raced over to Fang.

“They’re shooting — they’ve got silencers,” I reported urgently just as he sliced an X large enough for us to slip through. Another bullet pinged off a nearby catwalk, and Fang folded his wings and slipped out of the tent.

I took one quick glance down as I started to edge through the hole, and a roaming spotlight picked him out of the crowd. Dr. Scary. Here at the Cirque du Soleil, where we were under attack.

What a coinkydink.

55

“WILL IT HURT?” Nudge asked quietly as she put on her shoes. Early-morning light was breaking through the leafy trees outside and sprinkling sun across the room, and the flock was gathering for their next “field trip.”

“Oh, I’m sure not,” Angel said vaguely, digging around in her backpack for her coupon. “I mean, not more than, like, getting punched by an Eraser. Or a sprained wing.”

“Comforting,” Iggy commented. “I think it’s a great idea, personally, but I don’t think Gazzy’s so thrilled.” Iggy went to look for the Gasman as the others headed toward the front door.

“Are you sure everyone wants to go through this, Angel?” Dylan asked. “I mean, most of us aren’t … fond of needles. Lab associations and all.”

“Come on, guys. If Max were here, you’d be all into this,” Angel said a little testily. “The tattoos were Max’s birthday presents to us, after all.”

“Not to me,” Dylan said, wistful.

Just then, Jeb strode in, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed. “Good lord, Angel! What did I just hear you talking about?”

“We’re going to get our tattoos. Max gave us gift certificates for our birthdays.”

“You most certainly are not!” Jeb said firmly, just like the old days. “You’re underage — it’s illegal. I won’t hear of it.”

“You’re not the leader, Jeb,” Angel reminded him. “I

am.”

“Well, Jeb’s a grown-up,” Nudge pointed out.

Angel’s eyes narrowed. “You guys elected
me
leader.”

“Hmm,” said Nudge, sounding doubtful. “More like we elected Max
not
leader. I wonder what she’s doing?”

“You mean besides not worrying about us?” Angel started to feel angry. “I’ll tell you what she’s doing — she and Fang are off somewhere, having a great time, not even thinking about us! They’re all cozy, just the two of them, and’ve probably forgotten our names by now!”

“I bet not,” Nudge said stubbornly, as Iggy and Gazzy entered the room.

“Look, everyone, I have news for you,” Jeb said. “In the future, it might be that each one of you has a flock of his or her own to lead.”

Everyone looked around, blinking in surprise. Jeb sat down on the floor and motioned for them to do the same. He had a lot of explaining to do.

“Max has actually been a pretty good leader — she’s kept you alive; she’s taught you how to survive. I know you have your problems with her. I do too.” He gave a little laugh. “But here you are: You’re a flock and you need a leader. Angel says that she’s the leader, and I guess you guys are agreeing to it. So here are my questions:

“What are you going to do differently from Max? How will it be an improvement? How will you handle another attack like the one yesterday? How will you all work together to grow and change and adapt, to maximize your chances of survival?”

Angel thought. She listened to her Voice. She thought some more.

“Jeb? I’ve been thinking about it and I have something to say to you. To everyone.” She paused. One by one they stopped what they were doing and looked at her. “Maybe
living
is more important than just
surviving.
”

56

“THIS IS IT, SIR.” The lead geologist double-checked her GPS and overlaid its image with a satellite-based graph. “Satellite and radar confirm it. This stream leads to the underground source that the subjects get their water from.”

“I hope you’re right,” Dr. Gunther-Hagen said icily. He was irritated at the Cirque du Soleil blunder, tired from the late-hour flight, and altogether eager for some progress in this project. “Your performance up till now has been pathetic. Be glad I’m
somewhat
more forgiving than Mr. Chu.”

The geologist swallowed and rechecked her instruments with fingers that trembled slightly. “No, this is it,” she said, trying to make her voice strong. “I’m positive.”

“Okay, then,” said Dr. Gunther-Hagen. “Release the reactant.”

Another agent opened a foam cooler. A fog of dry ice swirled around them like early-morning mist. He carefully pulled on heavy gloves that protected him from fingertip to elbow. Following that, a gas mask covered his face. The others moved away to stand upwind. The agent carefully removed a test tube from the dry ice with tongs. He uncapped it, and after a moment’s hesitation, tipped the test tube so its pale pink liquid flowed into the thin mountain stream.

“Of course, this will affect everything it comes into contact with,” he murmured, praying that Dr. GuntherHagen knew what he was doing.

“Not necessarily,” said Dr. Gunther-Hagen. “It’s been specialized to bind only to certain receptors. These mutants have them; not many other species do.”

The team was silent as the reactant blended invisibly with the crystal-clear stream. Within thirty minutes, it would infiltrate the natural water reservoir that served the flock’s house.

Dr. Gunther-Hagen could barely contain his excitement. Now the real experiments would start.