Lorien Legacies: The Lost Files (12 page)

Chapter Five

What Sandor calls the Lecture Hall isn’t like the classrooms that I’ve seen on TV. There are no desks, no places to sit at all, really, with the exception of a cockpit-looking chair built into one wall. Sandor calls it the Lectern, and he climbs into the seat behind a control panel of blinking buttons and gauges. The room is about the size of our expansive living room, all white, every surface tiled with what looks to be retractable panels.

My footsteps echo as I walk to the center of the room. “How long have you been working on this?”

“Since we moved in,” he replies, flicking a series of levers on the Lectern. I can feel the room hum to life beneath my feet.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You weren’t ready before,” says Sandor. “But you proved to me today that you’re ready now. It’s time to begin the last phase of your training.”

I’d lured the Mog to our penthouse because I wanted to show Sandor that I was ready for more action. I’d wanted to show him that I could act independently, that I could be his partner. No more of his “young ward” crap.

But this is just more of the same. I thought I was ready to graduate. Instead, Sandor has decided to stick me in summer school.

Just a few minutes ago I was worried I’d made a bad decision of life-altering magnitude. Now, listening to Sandor patronize me, I’m reminded why I stayed up all night planning that Mog’s demise. For all his big serious pep talk, Sandor just doesn’t get me. I regretted the possibility that I’d put this place in danger to prove my readiness, but the more I watch Sandor play around with his gadgets and levers, the less sorry I feel about what I did.

“Shall we begin?” he asks.

I nod, not really paying attention. I’m tired of play-fighting. I got a taste of the real thing this morning and it might not have gone exactly as I expected, but it was still better than this. Hell, real school with soft human kids would be more exciting.

I’m part of the Garde. I have a destiny, a life to start leading. How many stupid training sessions will I have to endure before Sandor lets me start living it?

A panel on the front of the Lectern opens, discharging a trio of steel ball bearings at fastball speed. I easily deflect them with my telekinesis. This trick is played out. Sandor’s been shooting objects at me pretty much nonstop since my telekinesis developed.

Before the first trio can hit the ground, though, two more panels open in the walls on either side of me, both firing more projectiles. Caught in a crossfire, I use my telekinesis to ground the ones to my left, instinctively swinging my pipe-staff in a tight arc to bat away the others.

“Good!” shouts Sandor. “Use all your weapons.”

I shrug. “Is that it?”

Sandor sends another volley of projectiles my way. This time I don’t even bother with my telekinesis. I use the pipe-staff to deflect two of them, quickly spinning away from the others.

“How does the staff feel?”

I twirl my new weapon effortlessly from hand to hand. It feels natural, like a part of myself I didn’t know was missing before today.

“I like it.”

“On Lorien, they held competitions with those things. They called them Jousts. In his younger days, your father was a champion.”

It’s rare for Sandor to mention life before the Mogadorian invasion, but before I can grill him further, a section of the wall juts out at me like a battering ram. It’s too heavy to stop with my telekinesis, so I throw my weight into it and roll across it.

I land on my feet, supporting myself with my staff, and am greeted by a floating drone that looks like something Sandor made by attaching a helicopter propeller to a blender. Before I can properly size up the drone, it bobs in close and zaps me with an electrical shock that sends me tumbling back over the battering ram.

The shock isn’t enough to really hurt me, but it sends pins and needles through my limbs. Sandor laughs, delighted that one of his creations scored a hit.

His laughter just makes me angry.

I hop back to my feet, only to immediately duck another volley of projectiles. Meanwhile, the drone has bobbed out of staff range. I focus on it with my telekinesis.

From behind, a heavy punching bag on a chain detaches from the ceiling, slamming into me with the weight of a grown man. The wind is knocked out of me and I crash to the ground.

My face hits the floor in the fall. Instead of seeing stars, I see droplets of blood from my split lip pooling on the polished white floor. I wipe my face and scramble to one knee.

Sandor looks at me from behind his control panel, an eyebrow raised mockingly.

“Had enough?”

Still seeing red, I snarl and make a lunge for the drone. It’s not fast enough. I impale it with my staff in a shower of sparks.

I shake the broken drone off the end of my staff and stare at Sandor.

“Is that all you’ve got?”

Chapter Six

The workout in the Lecture Hall lasts two hours. Two hours of flying ball bearings, electrified drones made of scrap heap parts and whatever else Sandor thinks to throw at me. At some point, my mind shuts off and I just react. I’m pouring sweat, my muscles ache, but it’s a welcome relief not to think for a while.

When it’s over, Sandor pats me on the back. I hit the showers and stand under the hot water until my fingertips are wrinkled.

It’s dark when I emerge from my bathroom. I can smell Chinese takeout in the kitchen, but I’m not ready to join Sandor yet. He’ll want to talk about the training session, about what I could be doing differently and better. He won’t mention this morning’s Mog killing. Just like anytime we argue, it’ll get ignored until we cool down and forget about it. I don’t want to start the routine yet, so I stay hidden in my room.

The lights in my bedroom turn on automatically, motion sensors detecting my presence.

If I had any friends, I’m sure they’d be sick with envy of my room. I have a king-sized bed that faces a 52-inch flat-screen television, and the TV is hooked up to all three of the major video game systems. There’s an awesome stereo, with speakers mounted into the walls. My laptop sits on my desk next to the Beretta that Sandor lets me keep in here for emergencies.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I’m wrapped in a towel, and can see the bruises and scrapes on my torso and arms, all courtesy of today’s training. It’s not a pretty sight.

I turn off the lights and walk over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. I press my forehead to the cool glass and look down at the city of Chicago. From this height, you can actually see the wind as it whips by the blinking lights on building rooftops. There’s nonstop movement below—cars plodding along, blobs of ant-sized humans darting between them.

I did something reckless today because I thought it would prove something. Instead, it’s just sucked me in deeper to the same routine. Sandor thought he was rewarding me with that Lecture Hall session, but really it was just more monotony.

I turn my gaze away from the masses of people below, out toward the dark sheet of Lake Michigan. If one of my Legacies turns out to be flying, I’m just going to take off, go someplace where there are no Mogadorians, no Cêpans telling me what to do, no anything except me and sky.

But I can’t fly, at least not yet. I get dressed and join Sandor for dinner.

Chapter Seven

A few nights later, I dream of Lorien.

I feel energy course through me, almost like working out in the Lecture Hall, but different. It’s a giddy feeling, like a never-ending sugar rush. In the dream I’m a kid. Younger than I can even remember being.

And man, am I running.

I’m booking it through the woods, my legs pumping for all they’re worth. Two creatures that look like wolves but which have massive falcon wings jutting out of their backs are nipping at my heels. Chimæra. My Chimæra

It has rained recently and the ground squishes under my bare feet. I break into a recessed clearing that’s slick with bright white mud. The closest chimera clips my heel and I go tumbling onto my stomach, rolling through the mud, covering my clothes and face.

The chimera stands over me, pinning me as I pant and catch my breath. He leans down and sloppily licks my cheek.

I laugh harder than I can remember laughing in a long time. The other chimera cocks his head back and howls.

I roll between the chimera’s legs and hop to my feet. I lunge at him with a guttural war cry that strains my lungs. I wrap my arms around his neck, burying my face in his fur, and try to swing my leg over his back.

The other chimera gently bites the seat of my pants and pulls me back into the mud.

I dig my fingers into the wet dirt, then lob two misshapen balls of slime at the chimera, the stuff splattering across their snouts. They howl.

Springing to my feet, I run back the way we came. The chimera race behind me as I weave through the trees. I might not remember Lorien, but the young body I’m in knows it well. I’m just along for the ride as my young self tromps through stalks of knee-high grass, bare feet knowing just when to hop over errant tree roots to avoid tripping.

A campfire appears in front of me. Sitting by it, a burly man with a bushy black beard cooks our dinner over the fire, his sleeves rolled up past his thick forearms. Somehow, I know his face. My grandfather.

Next to him is a fresh-faced man I don’t immediately recognize. He’s dressed way too nicely for the outdoors.

It’s Sandor. I guess I never realized how young he was when we were on Lorien.

My grandfather sees me coming, grinning, and has the good sense to get out of the way. Sandor isn’t paying attention; he’s got his eyes glued to some kind of mobile communicator. Probably messaging a girl back in the capital about watching the fireworks later. Some things don’t change.

I tackle him around the knees, dragging him down into the dirt, my mud becoming his mud. He cries out, the comm flying from his grip. I sit on his chest, my arms folded.

“Conquered,” I declare.

“Not yet, pal,” Sandor replies, his eyes lighting up. He grabs me under the armpits and lifts me up, spinning.

In the distance, from the direction of the city, there comes a low rumbling.

With that, my grandfather accidentally drops our dinner into the fire.

I wake up feeling happy and sad at the same time.

Chapter Eight

It’s been a week since my last visit to the Lakefront and there hasn’t been so much as a peep from the iMog.

I get up at dawn to find Sandor already sitting at the kitchen counter, holding a cup of coffee. That’s unusual. My Cêpan normally prefers to sleep until mid-morning, sometimes not even waking up until I’ve returned from my run. He’s always been a night owl, and it’s only gotten worse since we moved to Chicago. I know that sometimes he slips out at night and comes home smelling like perfume and booze. I don’t ask him about these trips just like he doesn’t ask about my runs. I guess we just both need some private time—although he apparently has been keeping an eye on my private time, if the video footage he had on screen the other day is any indication.

I study his face. The bags under his eyes, the growth of beard hiding his scar; I try to find some resemblance to the young man I saw in my dream, but that person is gone. I never thought about the fact that Sandor had a life before he came here. I don’t remember Lorien—at least I thought I didn’t—but I know Sandor remembers it. He must miss it.

I wonder if he still sees a giddy, mud-covered menace when he looks at me. Probably not.

Sandor notices that I’m wearing my running clothes. We agreed to keep a low profile for a while, but I can’t stand another day trapped in here with just the Lecture Hall, video games, and overwatched spy movies to pass the time.

“Going for your run?” he asks.

I grunt a yes, acting casual as I slug back some orange juice from the container.

“I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

I turn to face him. “What are you talking about?”

“Need I remind you that last week you brought home a Mog from the lakefront? Maybe it’s time to change things up.”

I slam the refrigerator door harder than I mean to, rattling our vast assortment of condiments and takeout containers.

“I’m not staying cooped up in here all day,” I state.

“You think I’m not tired of looking at that sour mug of yours twenty-four/seven?” asks Sandor, arching an eyebrow. “Think again.”

He reaches onto the counter and hands me a laminated card.

“I got you this.”

The card is a membership for something called the Windy City Wall. There’s an unsmiling picture of me in the bottom corner of the card next to my most recent alias—Stanley Worthington.

“I thought it might be good for you to get out and meet some people that aren’t Mogadorian scouts. Lately you seem sort of . . .” he trails off, rubbing his beard, not sure how to proceed.

“Thanks,” I reply, and jog out the door before he can finish his thought, eager to escape. Neither of us have ever been much for sappy heart-to-hearts. I’d prefer to keep it that way.

The Windy City Wall is a sprawling rec center about twenty minutes from the John Hancock Center. I probably passed it a hundred times before today, but I’d never once considered going inside. These kinds of places were reserved for humans. And besides, I had plenty of training equipment back home.

After all these years, why had Sandor chosen now to sign me up for something like this? Now I wish that I’d let him finish his thought and tell me what I “seem” like lately.

There’s a smiley tour guide at the front desk who shows me around the center. There are basketball courts, a pool, and a gym that I’m surprised to find is as well-equipped as ours. Besides all that normal YMCA-type stuff, there are also a variety of obstacles courses, with cargo nets and old rubber tires meant to simulate various natural obstructions.

And then, of course, there is the Wall. It’s no wonder the rec center takes its name from it, because it’s absolutely huge, dominating an entire side of the building and rising up some forty feet from floor to ceiling. The rock is fake, and obviously there’s no blue sky in this warehouse-like building, but there’s still something majestic about the Wall. When my tour guide is done rambling, I head straight for it, and take my place in one of the lines, behind a bunch of kids that look just a little older than me.

Above us, a boy that I take for about seventeen is stuck in the middle of the wall, casting around desperately for a handhold. He can’t find one, and after a few seconds of flailing he drops off, his descent slowed by a safety line and cushioned by a pillowy mat.

“Is this your first time?”

I glance over my shoulder. A tall blond-haired boy about my age is smirking at me. I nod.

“Yeah.”

“This is the advanced end. You probably want to start with easy.”

“No, I don’t.”

The blond kid exchanges a look with a shorter kid next to him. The short kid doesn’t look as strong as his buddy, but he’s compact, which should make him a better climber.

“You need a vest,” says the short kid.

I laugh. The idea of me falling off this wall after the training I’ve had is ridiculous. I smile at the short kid, assuming that he’s joking even though both he and his friend are wearing vests.

“I don’t need one of those.”

“Tough guy!” jokes the blond one.

“No, seriously, it’s the rules,” says the other. “Even if you were Sir Edmund Hillary you’d need to wear a vest.”

I stare blankly at the kid. I have no idea who he’s talking about.

“He was the first person to climb Everest,” the short one explains.

“Oh,” I mumble. “The mountain.”

Both boys snicker. “Yeah, the mountain.”

The short kid nudges the tall one. “Why don’t you go get the new kid a vest?”

The tall kid gives me a weird look, then jogs off to an equipment rack. I realize this is one of the longest conversations with human kids I’ve ever had. I wonder how I’m doing.

“I’m Mike,” says the short kid, shaking my hand. “My friend is also Mike.”

“Is everyone in this city named Mike?”

“That’s funny,” says Short Mike, but he doesn’t laugh. “What’s your name?”

“Stanley.” I don’t hesitate, producing my alias easily, as if it’s my real name—just like Sandor’s drilled me to do.

Tall Mike returns and hands me a vest. I pull it over my head and they show me how to adjust the straps.

“So Stanley,” continues Short Mike, practically interrogating me. “Where do you go to school?”

“I’m homeschooled.”

“That explains your sparkling personality,” deadpans Short Mike.

I think he just insulted me.

Before I can respond, I notice her. She’s in the next line over. Maybe sixteen or seventeen, straight black hair, and eyes to match. She’s athletic looking, not like some of the flimsy girls I’ve seen jogging along the lakefront. She’s beautiful and she’s staring at me. How long has she been watching me? Has she been listening to my entire conversation with the Mikes?

When she sees that she has my attention, the girl quickly looks away, her cheeks reddening. I can’t help it; I can’t look away. Eventually she glances back my way and nervously flashes me a tentative smile. I can only blink in response.

Tall Mike waves his hand in front of my face.

“What?” I snap.

“It’s your turn, bro.”

I turn and see the climbing instructor sarcastically tapping his watch. I step forward and he buckles the safety cords to my vest. I’m barely listening as he explains where the best handholds are, my mind too busy trying to figure out why that girl was staring at me. Instinctively, I try to straighten my mess of hair. I don’t know what to think about that girl; on TV, there’s always music that plays when a guy makes eye contact with a pretty girl. I’d kill for some soundtrack now.

I wonder if she likes guys from other planets who can climb walls really fast.

Guess I’ll find out.

The instructor blows a whistle and I leap onto the wall. The start of my ascent is clumsy. I should’ve listened when the instructor explained the handholds. Even so, I quickly find a rhythm and begin swinging my body up the wall.

Is the girl watching? I have the unbearable urge to check.

I glance down. She is. She’s standing right next to the two Mikes, both of them nattering at her. She ignores them, watching me. No. More than watching me. She’s studying me like I’m the most interesting book in the world.

My palms are suddenly slick with sweat.

That’s not good.

I realize too late that I’ve worked myself into the same trouble spot as the first climber I watched. I’m about halfway up the wall, but there is no handhold close enough to reach above me, and backtracking is out of the question.

There’s only one handhold I can see. It’d be out of the reach of a human. With my strength, though, I can probably make it. I’ll have to jump for it.

I hunker down on my footholds, putting as much weight as I can on my knees and hips, before springing upward.

I grab the handhold and my sweaty fingertips scrabble across it.

Then, it is gone. I’m falling. I can’t believe this, I’m falling. Defeated by a human wall and some sweaty palms.

The mat cushions my fall. It isn’t my body that’s hurting, it’s my ego. I lay on the mat, not wanting to get up and face the eyes of the rec center.

Her eyes.

Tall Mike peers down at me.

“Guess you did need the vest,” he says with a smirk.

Short Mike helps me off the mat, telling me it was a good first try. I’m barely listening. My eyes sweep the room, looking for the girl.

She’s gone.