The Nobody People Bob Proehl (pocket ebook reader .txt) 📖

The entire academy is on lockdown except for troop movements. The students who haven’t been shipped through the Gates wait in their rooms for orders. They wouldn’t be out in the halls anyway. They’ve gone to ground in small groups for comfort.

Fahima takes a last tour of the halls. The moment is closing in on her now, her options narrowing. She ducks into an empty classroom, the black box theater where Sarah used to teach her art students. She pulls out her phone and calls Alyssa, who picks up but doesn’t speak.

Fahima takes a deep breath. “There’s something I need you to do,” she says. “And there can’t be any questions. I need you to just do it right away.”

One more piece in its proper place, Fahima walks to the elevator at the end of the third-floor hall. A Faction guard stands in front, sucking down bottled water, blocking her. He’s the pimple-faced boy who knocked Maya Patel out of the air. Maya is one floor above, hooked up to a breathing apparatus. Fahima takes her left index finger and pokes it at the bunched fingers of her right hand. It’s a gesture her uncle used to make at annoying customers’ backs that roughly means You have five fathers. It’s an illegible act of rebellion, but it makes Fahima feel better. The pimple-faced boy takes it as some kind of secret salute and steps aside, letting her in.

The elevator makes its slow climb to the top floor. A regenerative drive to capture the friction heat from braking and channel it back into the grid, Fahima thinks. A shaft of variable gravity. She makes promises to herself. She lists the people she needs to protect. Emmeline and Sarah. Alyssa and Kimani. They can never ask her what she’s done or why. There are decisions coming that will be terrible but necessary, and in the end she won’t apologize. She’ll make them to ward off further horrors and to stop Patrick if it comes to the point where he needs to be stopped.

The library of the headmaster’s quarters is dim and quiet. The black glass lets in the barest light. There are moving boxes shoved into the corners, empty shelves where Bishop’s first editions have been relocated to the student library on the seventh floor. Fahima wonders if Sarah ever would have settled in here, made it her own. Bishop’s ghost fills the space, haunting it with questions Fahima never got around to asking him or he never saw fit to answer. She’s searched the bookshelves and desk drawers for a diary or journal with no luck. Bishop’s past was swallowed up in his death as surely as if Owen Curry had gulped it down into whatever nowhere now held the town of Powder Basin and its residents. Some things are simply gone.

Through an open door, Fahima sees Sarah on the edge of the bed in the headmaster’s bedroom. Her blond hair is in a windblown tussle, and her sharp business attire is askew, making her look as if she’s wandered away from an explosion. It isn’t far from the truth. Sarah stares out a window sheeted over with black glass. Her hand trails at her side. Her fingers search. One of the Faction members must have led her up here from the infirmary and forgotten about her, unware that Sarah has barely used the bedroom in weeks. She’s been sleeping on the couch in the main office downstairs most nights. Fahima knows because she’s checked on Sarah before sneaking in here at night to work, to install. Crisis can afford one opportunities. She bends down and takes Sarah’s hand in her own.

“Sarah,” she says.

“Fahima,” says Sarah. Her face lights up with recognition. “I was with you earlier. Something is wrong.” She’s not entirely gone, Fahima thinks. Cortex was like an external hard drive for Sarah’s memories, but there has to be information stored inside the system. Parts of her are here.

“Sarah, do you remember what happened?” Fahima asks. “What happened to Cortex?”

It takes Sarah a moment to place the name. When she does, her hand pulls free of Fahima’s and gropes the air at her side, seeking her companion. Her hand closes into a loose fist. “He wanders off sometimes,” she says, bringing her hand to her chest and holding it in the other. “He’s not a bad dog. He’ll come back in a minute.” She turns back to the window. Fahima puts her hand on Sarah’s shoulder, and she startles. She examines Fahima’s reflection in the black glass, confused. She smiles and turns around.

“Fahima,” she says. “I was with you earlier. Something is wrong.”

“It is,” Fahima says. “I’m working on it.” She doesn’t have a plan to fix it yet, but she has a plan to buy herself time. Bury the ones she wants to keep. Hide them deep in the earth to keep them safe. Fahima pulls a footstool over to the doorway. She stands on tiptoe and removes the wooden corner piece on the top right side of the door frame, revealing a panel of buttons. She’s proud of her work. The dark wood molding around the door perfectly covers the machinery of the Gate Fahima built into the frame. She enters a code, and the Gate ramps up.

“Fahima, what’s that sound?” Sarah asks, yelling to be heard. Fahima climbs down, holding on to the jamb for balance. Her hand feels like it’s resting on the hood of an old car. The wood is alive with the working of the machinery underneath. The library on the other side of the door shimmers like a heat mirage. Another room swims into view. Fahima sees Alyssa waiting for them in her OR scrubs. Her features are out of focus, but Fahima would know her anywhere.

“I’ve got a place for you to stay,” Fahima says. “Somewhere you’ll be safe.”

Fahima takes Sarah’s hand and leads her through the door.