Page 40 of Last Chance to Save the World

And everyone does. That’s what happens when people in a crowd start pointing to the sky and shoutingLook!

People look.

Even Rian.

A flock of messenger birds swoops over Triumph Square.

The exact same gray as the feather that came with the box I got this morning.

“Thanks, Mom,” I mutter as I raise my sun shield’s hood over my face.

And, all around me, hundreds—thousands—of people do the same.

Rian may have peppered his people throughout the crowd, and they may have been circling around us like vultures, waiting for the right time to claim me.

But he’s not the only one to spike the crowd with allies.

Mom’s pigeons are not just pets. They’re messengers. And they’ve just told every single person sympathetic to Earth’s salvation to help me disappear.

This isn’t official business. Mom is like me—she keeps her circle tight. But just like Bruna’s cousin gave Rian and me a ride to the city this morning, it’s not hard to whisper from friend to friend to wear sun shields with flare threads and raise them when the birds fly. I bet ninety percent of the people here consider this little more than a flash-mob stunt, but they’re willing to participate for their impassioned cousin, their idealistic best friend, the sheer chaos of it all.

Still, this many people? All coming to help me? This is the legacy my mother has given this planet. That when push comes to shove, when she lets it be known in secret codes and silent whispers that she needs help—the people rise to help. Every single person on this island—with the obvious exception of Strom Fucking Fetor—knows that the work my mother does helps others, even if they don’t know Mom personally.

Emotion clogs my throat. This? This is more powerful than the secrets I have in my earring.

Not more easily sold on the black market, though, and that’s the difference between my mother and me.

I’ve got my sun shield over my head, but Rian’s not yet let go of my wrist. He turns from the soaring birds to my face, immediately clocking the way I’ve pulled the hood up, how I’m reaching into my pocket for eye protectors.

“Now!” Rian shouts, his hand crushing my wrist in a vise-like grip. He doesn’t know what’s coming, but he can read the signs; he can tell I’m doing something. “NOW!”

His net tightens. His people push through the crowd, ignoring the angry shouts of others.

Above, the messenger birds swirl in front of the crowd.

And then they explode.

I mean, not really. Mom would never let her precious pigeons just blow up. But they must have had a flash bomb attached to their legs or something, released remotely, I don’t know. That was Mom’s job. And it worked. Because as soon as I have the dark lenses over my eyes, the flash bomb goes off, a flare of brilliant, pure-white light.

It’s the middle of the day, so its effects are pretty limited, but if, say, you happened to be looking right at someone wearing a sun shield laced with flare threads, then yeah, you’re going to get blinded.

By instinct, Rian drops my wrist to cover his eyes.

At least half the crowd mimics the way he tosses an arm over his face. Because when the pigeons flew overhead, that was the first sign. All the people seeded into the crowd on my side—Mom’s side—raised their hoods and covered their faces, and anyone who happened to be looking at them got a blindingly bright flash straight into their retinas.

The result is chaos.

Exactly as planned.

Thousands of people are all dressed exactly like me—in clothing so bright, no one can look at us. And there’s no better time to disappear when the one you’re running from can’t even look at you.

I spin on my heel and push through the crowd. Rian immediately shouts my name, but I don’t pause. I spare him only one look back. He gropes blindly, blinking rapidly, trying to clear his vision.

“Move out!” Rian shouts, and the people in the crowd who work for him attempt to recover and chase me. But between the spots that no doubt still block their vision and the fact that huge swaths of the crowd are wearing the exact same sun shield as me, I’m able to slip through. I spot people being grabbed, hoods ripped off, but the disguise is enough for me to make it through the crowds.

I charge under a view ring. Before, the floating screens showed various different areas of Earth or cities from other planets. Now more than half of them display white—not because the screens were hacked, but because the people on the other side of the portal are holding white shirts, blank images, or empty pieces of paper up to the lenses. Mom must have been able to reach agents throughout the galactic system to come out and further add to the chaos. Sure enough, just when the woman with bushy red hair locks eyes with me, I dodge in front of a view-ring screen, and the white glow is enough to make her wince in pain and look away as the light catches the flare threads of my sun shield.

If I think too much about how Mom’s network has reached throughout the galaxy, how one person’s altruistic goal to justhelpothers inspired people from multiple planets to show up and help, I’ll collapse under the weight of it all.

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