Free Patrick Griffin's Last Breakfast on Earth by Ned Rust Page A

globe was labeled ISL Ə nd , “it’s the other way ’round.”
    â€œHuh,” said Kempton, clearly wanting to get back to his game.
    Patrick glanced up at a large, black-tinted camera bubble in the ceiling. He thought he could make out something moving inside, presumably the camera itself, but just then a strange, stiff-backed man in a bright blue uniform came stumbling down the hallway, leaning forward almost as if walking into a gale.
    â€œHello, Kempton!” hailed the man.
    â€œGood morning, Magister Dorkenlaffer!” said Kempton, standing and tugging on Patrick’s T-shirt.
    â€œAnd you must be, umm, Patrick Cudahy Griffin of Earth!” said the man.
    Patrick stood and tried not to gawk at the ribbons and ornaments up and down the man’s chest and arms. Some were traditional medals—gold stars, eagle wings, lightning bolts, and things like that—and some sparkled and even contained blinking lights. A particularly eye-catching one on his shoulder resembled a spider carrying a stop sign:

    The letters on it refracted the hallway lights like the surface of a DVD.
    â€œJust Patrick’s fine,” said Patrick, steering his eyes to the official’s homely, wide-jowled, heavily made-up face. The man, pleased by this reply, had broken into a fit of laughter that made Patrick think of a drowning person gasping for air.
    â€œShall we go to class now, Magister Dorkenlaffer?” asked Kempton.
    â€œOf course, of course!” He regained his breath and gestured for the boys to follow. Patrick noticed that in addition to the man’s peculiar habit of leaning forward, when he turned, his shoulders and head all moved together—like he had a board strapped to his back.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with him?” whispered Patrick as the teacher lurched sideways, pushing open a door that creaked as if its hinges hadn’t been oiled in twenty years.
    â€œWhat?” asked Kempton.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with him?” repeated Patrick. “He, um, walks a little funny.”
    â€œFreak triking accident,” replied Kempton a little too loudly for Patrick’s comfort. “Broke his back. He’s still partially paralyzed from the waist up.”
    Patrick followed Kempton and the teacher into a dimly lit classroom. He was pretty certain you couldn’t be paralyzed from the waist up and made a mental note to raise the issue when there was a better opportunity to talk. Now clearly wasn’t the time—far too many people were staring.

 
    CHAPTER 18
    Adept Intercept

    Novitiate Frank Kyle, one of the 120 remaining candidates for Earth’s coming Deaconry, slowed his Mercedes to observe the activity at 96 and 102 Morningside Drive.
    His dash-mounted BNK-E continued to scroll texts and to squawk calls from emergency responders regarding the missing child at the first house and the old man with the heart attack (exactly three hundred cubits away) at the next.
    â€œMicroparticle detection app, tau setting,” he said to the air.
    â€œTranscense levels approaching three parts per million,” replied a female-inflected voice.
    He smiled and pounded his fist on the goat-leather steering wheel: he was first-to-scene, which meant the mission was his . All he had to do now was execute the operational orders to eliminate the visitor, and do so discreetly. And that shouldn’t be a problem. A single enemy combatant operating here without any support network didn’t stand much of a chance.
    He punched the accelerator pedal and—without breaking the speed limit—drove off. All he had to do was spiral outward from this location. Now that he’d found the insertion point, the trailhead, he had just to keep an eye on his chemical detectors and he’d find the creature’s path. The residue from the transcense—the unique, unstable substance that had fueled the enemy combatant’s journey here—would leave a faint