The Nobody People by Bob Proehl (manga ereader TXT) 📕

spend the first night of the siege manning the window as if it were a watchtower. After blunting three saw blades, Homeland switches to acetelyne torches. Sparks bounce futilely off the wall below. A new agent rotates in every time a torch dies. Sarah and Fahima take turns napping on the couch, but Cortex keeps a constant vigil. Fahima’s on her shift, idly stroking the top of Cortex’s head, when her phone rings.

“You’re on the news,” Alyssa says.

Fahima smiles. “Can you see the top-floor windows?” She waves enthusiastically, forearm like a windshield wiper, like a kid on the back of a boat as it pulls away from shore.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Alyssa asks.

“Tell you what?”

“You left for work this morning knowing this could happen.”

“I leave for work every morning knowing this could happen,” says Fahima. It’s funny how little of the situation Alyssa understands. Maybe it’s a failure on Fahima’s part, an inability to communicate the threat. She hasn’t had the time or the energy to hold Alyssa’s hand and slow-walk her through it. Or maybe it’s something you can grasp only from the inside.

“I can come there,” Alyssa says. “Kimani can get me, and I can—”

“Lys, there’s no reason for you to be here,” Fahima says. “I’ll be home soon.”

She says it knowing it isn’t true. She’s resigned to never seeing their apartment again. But Alyssa believes her and after an exchange of “I love you”s hangs up.

By morning, Homeland has made no visible progress. Faction obsidianists work their way up, sheathing the building in black glass. By noon of the second day, the windows on the top floor, the headmaster’s quarters, are covered. The Bishop Academy is encased, an onyx tower in the middle of Manhattan, surrounded by armored vehicles.

The Faction turns the gym into a command center. Schematics of the building are spread on tables. A remote viewer sits cross-legged on the wooden floor, casting her consciousness out over 57th to reconnoiter the street while someone records her every word. As Faction members bustle in and out, students awaiting relocation stand outside, hoping to overhear what’s happening or be tapped to join up. Fahima is permitted to come and go as she wants. She isn’t sure who among the faculty isn’t allowed access. She suspects Sarah’s on the list of excluded.

The second night, Patrick calls Fahima in for a strategy session with Ji Yeon. There are others in the gym, but they keep their distance, working on whatever they’ve been tasked with while the generals make decisions. Patrick seems to be able to pull them close or hold them at a distance without saying anything.

“What are our options for getting out?” Patrick asks.

“We can get to the other schools,” says Fahima, “but Homeland is rolling up on Houston and LA, too.”

“What about Chicago?”

“Chicago’s going down different,” says Ji Yeon. “The mayor sent police to keep Homeland off North Avenue.”

“Chicago’s on our side?” Patrick asks with the barest hint of a smile.

“Having the police on our side and having police officers on our side are two different things,” says Ji Yeon. “I wouldn’t count on a blue wall to hold.”

“If we run, we end up in the same situation somewhere else,” Fahima says.

“Worse,” says Ji Yeon. “We’re fortified here.” The black glass walls have been up only a few hours, but they already feel more like enclosure than defense.

“What are our options if we fight?” Patrick asks.

Ji Yeon shrugs. “They’ve got inhibitor rigs set up. Unless we take them out, we’re dead out the door. If we open up windows at the top and send fliers down on them—”

“You want people to throw their bodies on the lights?” Patrick asks.

“Unless you have a better idea.”

“I might,” says Fahima. She’s relieved that Sarah and Kimani aren’t in the room. She can hold on to her secret a little longer. “If their inhibitor rigs are anything like the ones I designed, there’s a flaw. A weak point.”

“Is it the thermal exhaust port?” asks Ji Yeon, smirking. This is the girl Fahima met in Revere. Whip smart and funny, the kind of girl who drops a Star Wars reference into a war council.

“I can short them out,” Fahima says.

“Okay, then what?” Patrick asks, turning to Ji Yeon. The light that flickered on behind her eyes goes cold again. She points to the schematic of the building, the windows on the sixth floor.

“Obsidianists pull back the wall and we send out fliers,” she says. “They carry sparks and metalurges. Take out the heavy weapons. While they’re looking up, we open the front doors and hit them low. Disorient them with psychics, throw physical kids at them.”

“What’s the goal?” Fahima asks.

“We get them off our lawn,” Ji Yeon says.

“They’ll send more,” says Fahima.

“Then we kill more.”

Fahima looks to Patrick. She knows this isn’t going to stop but holds out hope that it will. Either way, the decision falls to him. He nods. “Now what?”

“We wait till morning, closer to noon,” Ji Yeon says. “They’ve got the lights on us now, but if the sun’s high, it’ll mask—”

The gym doors bust open. Sarah drags Viola in by the arm. Cortex is at Sarah’s heel, teeth bared. One of the Faction members takes a step to restrain her. Sarah puts her palm on his face, and he crumples to the ground. His partner steps back, holding his hands up defensively. Sensing the opportunity to see behind the curtain, students file in behind Sarah. Fahima sees Maya Patel and Jovan Markovic, both in their last year. She sees Alma Mason and Boyd Scott and Mona Lamb. How many students have I taught? Fahima thinks. What percentage of the original Resonant population, before the Pulse, passed through the Bishop Academy? These are statistics she could find, numbers she could summon up. Then there’s the unquantifiable corollary: How much good have we done?

“What did you do to her, Patrick?” Sarah asks, shoving Viola in front of him, presenting her as evidence. Sarah’s hands rest on her shoulders,