The Revenge of Seven

Pittacus Lore

the r evenge of seven

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Follow Penguin

The Lorien Legacies by Pittacus Lore

NOVELS

I Am Number Four

The Power of Six

The Rise of Nine

The Fall of Five

The Revenge of Seven

NOVELLAS

I Am Number Four: The Lost Files 1: Six’s Legacy

I Am Number Four: The Lost Files 2: Nine’s Legacy

I Am Number Four: The Lost Files 3: The Fallen Legacies

I Am Number Four: The Lost Files 4: The Search For Sam

I Am Number Four: The Lost Files 5: The Last Days of Lorien

I Am Number Four: The Lost Files 6: The Forgotten Ones

I Am Number Four: The Lost Files 7: Five’s Legacy

I Am Number Four: The Lost Files 8: Return To Paradise

I Am Number Four: The Lost Files 9: Five’s Betrayal

NOVELLA COLLECTIONS

I Am Number Four: The Lost Files: The Legacies

(Contains novellas 1–3)

I Am Number Four: The Lost Files: Secret Histories

(Contains novellas 4–6)

I Am Number Four: The Lost Files: Hidden Enemy

(Contains novellas 7–9)

The events in this book are real.

Names and places have been changed to protect

the Loric, who remain in hiding.

Other civilizations do exist.

Some of them seek to destroy you.

1

The nightmare is over. When I open my eyes, there’s nothing but darkness.

I’m in a bed, that much I can tell, and it’s not my own. The mattress is enormous, somehow

contoured perfectly to my body, and for a moment I wonder if my friends moved me to one of the

bigger beds in Nine’s penthouse. I stretch my legs and arms out as far as they’ll go and can’t find the edges. The sheet draped over me is more slippery than soft, almost like a piece of plastic, and it is

radiating heat. Not just heat, I realize, but also a steady vibration that soothes my sore muscles.

How long have I been asleep, and where the heck am I?

I try to remember what happened to me, but all I can think of is my last vision. It felt like I was in that nightmare for days. I can still smell the burned-rubber stench of Washington, D.C. Smog clouds

lingered over the city, a reminder of the battle fought there. Or the battle that will be fought there, if my vision actually comes true.

The visions. Are they part of a new Legacy? None of the others have Legacies that leave them

traumatized in the morning. Are they prophecies? Threats sent by Setrákus Ra, like the dreams John

and Eight used to have? Are they warnings?

Whatever they are, I wish they’d stop happening.

I take a few deep breaths to clean the smell of Washington out of my nostrils, even though I know

it’s all in my head. What’s worse than the smell is that I can remember every little detail, right down to the horrified look on John’s face when he saw me on that stage with Setrákus Ra, condemning Six

to death. He was trapped in the vision, too, just like I was. I was powerless up there, stuck between

Setrákus Ra, self-appointed ruler of Earth, and …

Five. He’s working for the Mogadorians! I have to warn the others. I sit bolt upright and my head

swims – too fast, too soon – rust-colored blobs floating through my vision. I blink them away, my

eyes feeling gummy, my mouth dry and throat sore.

This definitely isn’t the penthouse.

My movement must trigger some nearby sensor, because the room’s lights slowly grow brighter.

They come on gradually, the room eventually bathed in a pale red glow. I look around for the source

of the light and discover it pulsing from veins interwoven through the chrome-paneled walls. A chill

goes through me at how precise the room looks, how severe, lacking any decoration at all. The heat

from the blanket increases, almost as if it wants me to curl back up beneath it. I shove it away.

This is a Mogadorian place.

I crawl across the mammoth bed – it’s bigger than an SUV, big enough for a ten-foot-tall

Mogadorian dictator to comfortably relax in – until my bare feet dangle over the metal floor. I’m

wearing a long gray nightgown embroidered with thorny black vines. I shudder, thinking about them

putting me into this gown and leaving me here to rest. They could’ve just killed me, but instead they

put me in pyjamas? In my vision, I was sitting alongside Setrákus Ra. He called me his heir. What

does that even mean? Is that why I’m still alive?

It doesn’t matter. The simple fact is: I’ve been captured. I know this. Now what am I going to do

about it?

I figure the Mogs must have moved me to one of their bases. Except this room isn’t like the horrific

and tiny cells that Nine and Six described from when they were captured. No, this must be the

Mogadorians’ twisted idea of hospitality. They’re trying to take care of me.

Setrákus Ra wants me treated more like a guest than a prisoner. Because, one day, he wants me

ruling next to him. Why, I still don’t understand, but right now it’s the only thing keeping me alive.

Oh no. If I’m here, what happened to the others in Chicago?

My hands start to shake and tears sting my eyes. I have to get out of here. And I have to do it alone.

I push down the fear. I push down the lingering visions of a decimated Washington. I push down the

worries about my friends. I push it all down. I need to be a blank slate, like I was when we first

fought Setrákus Ra in New Mexico, like I was during my training sessions with the others. It’s easiest for me to be brave when I just don’t think about it. If I act on instinct, I can do this.

Run, I imagine Crayton saying. Run until they’re too tired to chase you.

I need something to fight them with. I look around the room for anything I can use as a weapon.

Next to the bed is a metallic nightstand, the only other furniture in the room. The Mogs left a glass of water there for me, which I’m not dumb enough to drink even though I’m insanely thirsty. Next to the

glass, there’s a dictionary-sized book with an oily, snaky-skin cover. The ink on the cover looks

singed, the words indented and rough around the edges, as if it were printed with acid for ink.

The title reads The Great Book of Mogadorian Progress, surprisingly in English. Under it are a series of angular boxes and hash marks that I assume is Mogadorian.

I pick up the book and open it. Each page is divided in half, English on one side and Mogadorian

on the other. I wonder if I’m supposed to read this thing.

I slam the book closed. The important thing is that it’s heavy and I can swing it. I won’t be turning

any Mogadorian guards into ash clouds, but it’s better than nothing.

I climb down from the bed and walk over to what I think is the door. It’s a rectangular panel cut

into the plated wall, but there aren’t any knobs or buttons.

As I tiptoe closer, wondering how I’m going to open this thing, there’s a mechanical whirring noise

from inside the wall. It must be on a motion sensor like the lights, because the door hisses upward as soon as I’m close, disappearing into the ceiling.

I don’t stop to wonder why I’m not locked down. Clutching the Mogadorian book, I step into a

hallway that’s just as cold and metallic as my room.

‘Ah,’ says a woman’s voice. ‘You’re awake.’

Rather than guards, a Mogadorian woman perches on a stool outside my room, obviously waiting

for me. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen a female Mog before, and definitely not one like her. Middle-

aged, with wrinkles forming in the pale skin around her eyes, the Mog looks surprisingly

unthreatening in a high-necked, floor-length dress, like something one of the Sisters would wear back

at Santa Teresa. Her head is shaved except for two long, black braids at the back of her skull, the rest of her scalp covered by an elaborate tattoo. Instead of being nasty and vicious, like the Mogs I’ve

fought before, this one is almost elegant.

I stop short in front of her, not sure what to do.

The Mog glances at the book in my hands and smiles.

‘And ready to begin your studies, I see,’ she says, getting up. She’s tall, slender and vaguely

spiderlike. Standing before me, she dips into an elaborate bow. ‘Mistress Ella, I shall be your

instructor while –’

As soon as her head comes low enough, I smack her across the face with the book as hard as I can.

She doesn’t see it coming, which I guess is strange because all the Mogs I’ve encountered have

been ready to fight. This one lets out a short grunt and then hits the floor with a fluttering of fabric from her fancy dress.

I don’t stop to see if I’ve knocked her out or if she’s pulling a blaster from some hidden

compartment in that dress. I run, choosing a direction at random and hurtling down the hallway as fast as I can. The metal floor stings my bare feet and my muscles begin to ache, but I ignore all that. I have to get out of here.

Too bad these secret Mogadorian bases never have any exit signs.

I turn one corner and then another, sprinting through hallways that are pretty much identical. I keep

expecting sirens to start blaring now that I’ve escaped, but they never do. There aren’t any heavy

Mogadorian footfalls chasing after me either.

Just when I’m starting to get winded and thinking about slowing down, a doorway opens on my

right and two Mogadorians step forward. They’re more like the ones I’m used to – burly, dressed in

their black combat gear, beady eyes glaring at me. I dart around them, even though neither of them

makes any attempt to grab me. In fact, I think I hear one of them laughing.

What is going on here?

I can feel the two Mog soldiers watching me run, so I duck down the first hallway that I can. I’m

not sure if I’ve been going in circles or what. There isn’t any sunlight or outside noises at all, nothing to indicate that I might be getting closer to an exit. It doesn’t seem like the Mogs even care what I do, like they know I’ve got no chance to get out of here.

I slow down to catch my breath, cautiously inching down this latest sterile hallway. I’m still

clutching the book – my only weapon – and my hand is starting to cramp. I switch hands and press on.

Up ahead, a wide archway opens with a hydraulic hiss; it’s different from the other doors, wider,

and there are strangely blinking lights on the other side.

Not blinking lights. Stars.

As I walk under the archway, the metal-plated ceiling gives way to a glass bubble, the room wide-

open, almost like a planetarium. Except real. There are various consoles and computers protruding

from the floor – maybe this is some kind of control room – but I ignore them, drawn instead to the

dizzying view through the expansive window.

Darkness. Stars.

Earth.

Now I understand why the Mogadorians weren’t chasing me. They know there’s nowhere for me to

go.

I’m in space.

I get right up to the glass, pressing my hands against it. I can feel the emptiness outside, the endless, ice-cold, airless space between me and that floating blue orb in the distance.

‘Glorious, isn’t it?’

His booming voice is like a bucket of cold water dumped on me. I spin around and press my back

to the glass, feeling like the void behind me might be preferable to facing him.

Setrákus Ra stands behind one of the control panels, watching me, a hint of a smile on his face. The

first thing I notice is that he’s not nearly as huge as he was when we fought him at Dulce Base. Still, Setrákus Ra is tall and imposing, his broad physique clad in a stern black uniform, studded and

decorated with an assortment of jagged Mogadorian medals. Three Loric pendants, the ones he took

from the dead Garde, hang from around his neck, glowing a subdued cobalt.

‘I see you’ve already taken up my book,’ he says, gesturing to my dictionary-sized club. I didn’t

realize I was clutching it to my chest. ‘Although not necessarily in the way I’d hoped. Fortunately,

your Proctor wasn’t badly injured …’

Suddenly, in my hands, the book begins to glow red, just like the piece of debris I picked up back

at Dulce Base. I don’t know exactly how I’m doing it, or even what I’m doing.

‘Ah,’ Setrákus Ra says, watching with a raised eyebrow. ‘Very good.’

‘Go to hell!’ I scream, and fling the glowing book at him.

Before it’s even halfway to him, Setrákus Ra raises one huge hand and the book stops in midair. I

watch as the glow I’d infused it with slowly fades.

‘Now, now,’ he chides me. ‘Enough of that.’

‘What do you want from me?’ I shout, frustrated tears filling my eyes.

‘You already know that,’ he replies. ‘I showed you what’s to come. Just as I once showed Pittacus

Lore.’

Setrákus Ra hits a few buttons on the control panel in front of him and the ship begins to move.

Gradually, the Earth, seeming both impossibly far and also like it’s so close I could reach out and

grab it, drifts across my view. We aren’t moving towards it; we’re turning in place.

‘You are aboard the Anubis,’ Setrákus Ra intones, a note of pride in his gravelly voice. ‘The

flagship of the Mogadorian fleet.’

When the ship completes its turn, I gasp. I reach out and press my hand against the glass for

support, knees suddenly weak.

Outside, in orbit around the Earth, is the Mogadorian fleet. Hundreds of ships – most of them long

and silver, about the size of small airplanes, just like the ones the Garde have described fighting

before. But among them are at least twenty enormous warships that dwarf the rest – looming and

menacing, mounted cannons jutting off their angular frames, aimed right at the unsuspecting planet

below.

‘No,’ I whisper. ‘This can’t be happening.’

Setrákus Ra walks towards me, and I’m too shocked by the hopeless sight before me to even move.

Gently, he drapes his hand on my shoulder. I can feel the coldness of his pale fingers through my

gown.

‘The time has come,’ he says, gazing at the fleet with me. ‘The Great Expansion has come to Earth

at last. We will celebrate Mogadorian Progress together, granddaughter.’

2

From the cracked second-floor window of an abandoned textile factory, I watch an old man in a

ragged trench coat and filthy jeans crouch down in the doorway of the boarded-up building across the

street. Once he’s settled, the man pulls a brown-bagged bottle from his coat and starts drinking. It’s the middle of the afternoon – I’m on watch – and he’s the only living soul I’ve seen in this abandoned part of Baltimore since we got here yesterday. It’s a quiet, deserted place, and yet it’s still preferable to the version of Washington, D.C. I saw in Ella’s vision. For now at least, it doesn’t look like the

Mogadorians have pursued us from Chicago.

Although, technically, they wouldn’t have to. There’s already a Mogadorian among us.

Behind me, Sarah stomps her foot. We’re in what used to be the foreman’s office, dust everywhere,

the floorboards swollen and mildewed. I turn around just in time to see her frowning at the remains of a cockroach on the bottom of her sneaker.

‘Careful. You might go crashing right through the floor,’ I tell her, only half joking.

‘I guess it was too much to ask for all your secret bases to be in penthouse apartments, huh?’ Sarah

asks, fixing me with a teasing smile.

We slept in this old factory last night, our sleeping bags laid on the sunken floorboards. Both of us are filthy, it’s been a couple of days since our last real shower, and Sarah’s blond hair is caked with dirt.

She’s still beautiful to me. Without her at my side, I might’ve totally lost it after the attack in Chicago, where the Mogs kidnapped Ella and destroyed the penthouse.

I grimace at the thought, and Sarah’s smile immediately fades. I leave the window and walk over to

her.

‘This not knowing is killing me,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

Sarah touches my face, trying to console me. ‘At least we know they won’t hurt Ella. Not if what

you saw in that vision is true.’

‘Yeah,’ I snort. ‘They’ll just turn her into a brainwashed traitor, like …’

I trail off, thinking of the rest of our missing friends and the turncoat they traveled with. We still haven’t heard anything from Six and the others, not that there’s an easy way for them to get in touch

with us. All their Chests are here and, assuming they could even try reaching us by more traditional

methods, they wouldn’t have the first clue how to find us, seeing as we had to flee Chicago.

The only thing I know for sure is that I have a fresh scar on my leg, the fourth of its kind. It doesn’t hurt anymore, but it feels like a weight. If the Garde had stayed apart, if we’d kept the Loric charm

intact, that fourth scar would’ve symbolized my death. Instead, one of my friends is dead in Florida,

and I don’t know how, or who, or what’s happened to the rest of them.

I feel in my gut that Five is still alive. I saw him in Ella’s vision, standing alongside Setrákus Ra, a traitor. He must have led the others into a trap, and now one of them won’t be coming back. Six,

Marina, Eight, Nine – one of them is gone.

Sarah wraps her hand around mine, massaging it, trying to ease some of the tension.

‘I can’t stop thinking about what I saw in that vision …’ I begin, trailing off. ‘We’d lost, Sarah.

And now it feels like it’s happening for real. Like this is the beginning of the end.’

‘That doesn’t mean anything and you know it,’ Sarah replied. ‘Look at Eight. Wasn’t there some

kind of death prophecy about him? And he survived.’

I frown, not stating the obvious, that Eight could be the one who was killed down in Florida.

‘I know it seems bleak,’ Sarah continues, ‘and, I mean, it is pretty bad, John. Obviously.’

‘Good pep talk.’

She squeezes my hand, hard, and widens her eyes at me like shut up.

‘But those guys down in Florida are Garde,’ she says. ‘They’re going to fight, they’re going to keep

going and they’re going to win. You have to believe, John. When you were comatose back in Chicago,

we never gave up on you. We kept fighting and it paid off. Just when it seemed like we’d lost, you

saved us.’

I think about the state my friends were in when I finally awoke back in Chicago. Malcolm was

mortally wounded and Sarah badly hurt, Sam nearly out of ammo and Bernie Kosar unaccounted for.

They’d put it all on the line for me.

‘You guys saved me first,’ I reply.

‘Yeah, obviously. So return the favor and save our planet.’

The way she says it, like it’s no big deal, makes me smile. I pull Sarah close and kiss her.

‘I love you, Sarah Hart.’

‘Love you back, John Smith.’

‘Um, I love you guys, too …’

Sarah and I both turn to find Sam standing in the doorway, an awkward smile on his face. Curled

up in his arms is a huge orange cat, one of the six Chimærae that our new Mogadorian friend brought

with him, drawn to us by Bernie Kosar’s rooftop howling. Apparently, the stick BK took from Eight’s

Chest was some kind of Chimæra totem used to lead them to us, like a Loric dog whistle. We stuck to

back roads on our way to Baltimore, careful to make sure we weren’t tailed. The crowded van ride

gave us plenty of time to brainstorm names for our new allies. This particular Chimæra, preferring a

chubby cat-shape as its regular form, Sam insisted we name Stanley, in honor of Nine’s old alter ego.

If he’s still alive, I’m sure Nine will be thrilled to have a fat cat with an obvious affection for Sam named after him.

‘Sorry,’ Sam says, ‘did I spoil the moment?’

‘Not at all,’ Sarah replies, stretching out one arm towards Sam. ‘Group hug?’

‘Maybe later,’ Sam says, looking at me. ‘The others are back and setting everything up

downstairs.’

I nod, reluctantly letting go of Sarah and walking over to the duffel bag with our supplies. ‘They

have any problems?’

Sam shakes his head. ‘They had to settle for just a couple of little camping generators. Not enough

cash for something big. Anyway, it should be enough juice.’

‘What about surveillance?’ I ask, pulling the white locator tablet and its adapter free from the

duffel bag.

‘Adam said he didn’t see any Mog scouts,’ Sam answers.

‘Well, out of anyone, he’d know how to spot them,’ Sarah puts in.

‘True,’ I reply halfheartedly, still not trusting this so-called good Mogadorian, even though he’s

done nothing but help us since showing up in Chicago. Even now, with him and Malcolm setting up

our newly purchased electronics on the factory floor below, I feel a vague sense of unease at having

one of them so close. I push it down. ‘Let’s go.’

We follow Sam down a rusty spiral staircase and on to the floor of the factory proper. The place

must’ve been closed down in a hurry because there are still racks of musty, eighties-style men’s suits pushed up against the walls and half-full boxes of raincoats abandoned on conveyor belts.

A Chimæra in golden retriever form that Sarah insisted we call Biscuit tumbles into our path, her

teeth clenched around the ripped sleeve of a suit, locked in a tug-of-war with Dust, the gray husky.

Another Chimæra, Gamera, which Malcolm named after some old movie monster, trundles after the

others but has trouble keeping up in his snapping turtle form. The two other new Chimærae – a hawk

we dubbed Regal and a scrawny raccoon we named Bandit – watch the game from one of the

inoperative conveyor belts.

It’s a relief to see them playing. The Chimærae weren’t in the best shape when Adam liberated

them from Mogadorian experimentation, and they still weren’t doing so hot when he brought them to

Chicago. It was slow going, but I was able to use my healing Legacy to fix them up. There was

something inside of them, something Mogadorian, that actually felt like it was pushing back against

my powers. It even made my Lumen flare up briefly, something that’s never happened when using my

healing. Ultimately, though, whatever the Mogs did was washed away by my Legacy.

I’d never actually used my healing Legacy on a Chimæra before that night. Luckily, it worked,

because there was one Chimæra in even worse condition than all our new friends.

‘Have you seen BK?’ I ask Sam, scanning the room for him. I had found him on the roof of the John

Hancock Center, shredded by Mogadorian blaster fire and barely clinging to life. I used my healing

on him, praying that it would work. Even though he’s better now, I’ve still been keeping an extra-

close eye on him, probably because the fates of so many of my other friends are unknown.

‘There,’ Sam replies, pointing.

At one end of the room, against a wall covered with competing graffiti tags, are a trio of industrial-

size laundry bins overflowing with piles of khaki pants. It’s at the summit of one of these piles that Bernie Kosar rests, the antics of Biscuit and Dust seeming to tire him out. Despite my healing, he’s

still weak from the fight in Chicago – and also missing a jagged chunk from one of his ears – but with my animal telepathy I can sense a sort of contentedness coming off him as he watches the other

Chimærae. When BK sees us enter, his tail thumps fresh dust clouds from the pile of old clothes.

Sam sets down Stanley, and the cat trundles over to the clothes piles with BK, settling into what I

guess is the designated Chimæra napping zone.

‘Never thought I’d have my own Chimæra,’ Sam says, ‘much less a half dozen of them.’

‘And I never thought I’d be working with one of them,’ I reply, my gaze settling on Adam.

At the center of the factory floor, steelwork benches are bolted into the floor. Sam’s dad, Malcolm,

and Adam are setting up the computer equipment they just purchased by trading in some of my waning

supply of Loric gemstones. Because there’s no electricity running to this old factory, they had to buy some small battery-powered generators for the trio of laptops and mobile hotspot. I watch Adam

hooking up one of the laptop batteries – his deathly pale skin, lank black hair and angular features

making him slightly more human looking than the usual Mogadorians – and remind myself that he’s on

our side. Sam and Malcolm seem to trust him; plus he’s got a Legacy, the power to create shock

waves, which he inherited from One. If I hadn’t seen him use the Legacy with my own eyes, I’m not

sure I’d even think it was possible. Part of me wants to believe, maybe even needs to believe, that a

Mog wouldn’t be able to just steal a Legacy, that he has to be worthy. That it happened for a reason.

‘Look at it this way,’ Sam says quietly as we walk over to the others. ‘Humans, Loric, Mogs …

we’ve got like the first meeting of the Intergalactic United Nations over here. It’s historic.’

I snort and step up to the laptop Adam has just finished connecting. He takes one look at me and

must detect something – maybe I’m not doing such a good job concealing my conflicted feelings –

because he looks down and steps aside, making room for me and moving on to the next laptop. He

keeps his eyes fixed on the screen, typing quickly.

‘How’d it go?’ I ask.

‘We got most of the gear we need,’ Malcolm replies as he fiddles with a wireless router. Even

with his beard starting to get majorly unkempt, Malcolm looks healthier than he did when I first met

him. ‘Anything happen here?’

‘Nothing,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘It’d take a miracle for the Garde in Florida to track us down.

And Ella … I keep hoping her voice will pop into my head and tell me where they took her, but she

hasn’t made contact.’

‘At least we’ll know where the others are once the tablet is hooked up,’ Sarah says.

‘With the gear we bought, I think we can run a hack on the John Hancock building’s phone

network,’ Malcolm suggests. ‘That way, if they try calling in from the road, we can intercept the call.’

‘Good idea,’ I reply, plugging the white locator tablet into the laptop and waiting for it to boot up.

Malcolm pushes his glasses up his nose and clears his throat. ‘It was Adam’s idea, actually.’

‘Oh,’ I reply, keeping my voice neutral.

‘That is a good idea,’ Sarah chimes in. She scoots in next to Malcolm and starts working on the third laptop, giving me a look like I should try saying something nice to Adam. When I don’t, an

awkward silence settles over the group. There have been a lot of those since we left Chicago.

Before it can get too weird, the tablet boots up. Sam peers over my shoulder.

‘They’re still in Florida,’ he says.

There’s a solitary dot for me on the tablet, pulsing on the East Coast, and then miles to the south are the four dots for the surviving Garde. Three of the dots are bunched together, basically overlapping

into one glowing blob, while a fourth is a short distance away. Immediately, scenarios for that

isolated dot begin cycling through my head. Was one of our friends captured? Did they have to

separate after they were attacked? Is that Five apart from the others? Does that prove he’s a traitor, like in my vision?

I’m distracted from these thoughts by the fifth dot on the tablet, literally an ocean away from the

others. This one hovers over the Pacific, its glow a little dimmer than the rest.

‘That must be Ella,’ I say, my brow furrowing. ‘But how –’

Before I can finish my question, Ella’s dot flickers and disappears. A second later, before I can

even process my panic, Ella blinks back to life, now hovering over Australia.

‘What the hell?’ Sam asks, staring over my shoulder.

‘It’s moving so fast,’ I say. ‘Maybe they’re transporting her somewhere.’

The dot disappears again, then reappears at an impossible point over Antarctica, nearly off the

edge of the tablet’s screen. For the next few seconds, it flickers in and out, bouncing across the map. I smack the side of the tablet with my palm out of frustration.

‘They’re scrambling the signal somehow,’ I say. ‘We’ve got no chance of finding her while it’s

like this.’

Sam points to the others clustered around Florida. ‘If they were going to hurt Ella, wouldn’t they

have done it already?’

‘Setrákus Ra wants her,’ Sarah puts in, looking at me. I had told them all about that nightmare scene

in D.C. and Ella ruling alongside Setrákus Ra. It’s still hard for any of us to believe, but at least it gives us one advantage. We know what Setrákus Ra wants.

‘I hate to leave her out there,’ I say grimly. ‘But I don’t think he’ll harm her. Not yet, anyway.’

‘At least we know where the others are,’ Sam insists. ‘We need to get down there before someone

else …’

‘Sam’s right,’ I decide, driven by the sinking feeling that one of those dots could blink out at any

moment. ‘They might need our help.’

‘I think that would be a mistake,’ Adam says. His voice is tentative, but there’s still enough Mog

harshness to make my fists clench from reflex. I’m not used to having one of them around.

I turn to stare at him. ‘What did you say?’

‘A mistake,’ he repeats. ‘It’s predictable, John. It’s a reactionary move. This is why my people

always catch up to you.’

I can feel my jaw working, trying to form a response, but mostly I just want to punch his face in.

I’m about to take a step forward when Sam puts a hand on my shoulder.

‘Easy,’ Sam says quietly.

‘You want us to just sit around here and do nothing?’ I ask Adam, trying to keep my cool. I know I

should hear him out, but this whole situation has me feeling cornered. And now I’m supposed to take

advice from a guy whose species has been hunting me for my entire life?

‘Of course not,’ Adam replies, looking up at me with those coal-colored Mogadorian eyes.

‘Then what?’ I snap. ‘Give me one good reason we shouldn’t go to Florida.’

‘I’ll give you two,’ Adam replies. ‘First, if the rest of the Garde are in danger or captured as you

suspect, then their continued survival hinges on luring you in. They are useful only as bait.’

‘You’re saying it could be a trap,’ I reply through gritted teeth.

‘If they are captured, then yes, of course it is a trap. On the other hand, if they are free, what good will your heroic intervention do? Aren’t they highly trained and perfectly capable of getting

themselves out of trouble?’

What can I say to that? No? Six and Nine, pretty much the two most badass people I know, aren’t

capable of escaping from Florida and tracking us down? But what if they’re down there waiting for us

to come get them? I shake my head, still feeling like I want to throttle Adam.

‘So what’re we supposed to do in the meantime?’ I ask him. ‘Just sit around and wait for them?’

‘We can’t do that,’ Sam jumps in. ‘We can’t just leave them. They have no way of finding us.’

Adam spins his laptop around so I can see the screen.

‘Between kidnapping Ella and killing a Garde in Florida, my people will believe they have you on

the run once again. They won’t be expecting a counterstrike.’

On the laptop, Adam has pulled up satellite photographs of an expanse of suburbia. It looks like a

totally generic, wealthy community. When I look a little closer, I notice a paranoid number of security cameras mounted on the imposingly tall stone wall that encircles the entire property.

‘This is Ashwood Estates, just outside of Washington, D.C.,’ Adam continues. ‘It’s home to the

top-ranking Mogadorians assigned to North America. With the Plum Island facility wrecked and the

Chimærae recovered, I think we should focus our attack here.’

‘What about the mountain base in West Virginia?’ I ask.

Adam shakes his head. ‘That is a military installation only, kept out of sight so my people’s forces

can mass there. We’d have a hard time taking it down now. And anyway, the real power, the trueborn

Mogadorians, the leaders – they reside in Ashwood.’

Malcolm clears his throat. ‘I tried to relay everything you told me about trueborns, Adam. But

maybe it’d be better if you explained it?’

Adam looks around at us, a bit apprehensive. ‘I don’t know where to begin.’

‘You can skip the whole Mogadorian birds-and-the-bees speech,’ Sam says, and I stifle a smile.

‘It has to do with the bloodlines, right?’ I say, prompting him.

‘Yeah. Trueborn are the pure bloodlines. Mogadorians born of Mogadorian parents. Like me,’

Adam says, slouching a bit. His trueborn status is no great point of pride. ‘The others, the vatborn, are the soldiers you’ve fought most often. They are not born but grown, thanks to the science of Setrákus

Ra.’

‘Is that why they disintegrate?’ Sarah asks. ‘Because they’re not, like, real Mogs?’

‘They’re bred for combat, not for burying,’ Adam replies.

‘Doesn’t sound like much of a life,’ I say. ‘You Mogs worship Setrákus Ra for that?’

‘As the histories contained in the Great Book tell it, our people were dying off before the so-called

Beloved Leader came along. The vatborn and Setrákus Ra’s genetic research saved our species.’

Adam pauses, a sneer forming as he thinks this over. ‘Of course, Setrákus Ra also wrote the Great

Book, so who knows.’

‘Fascinating,’ Malcolm says.

‘Yeah, definitely more about Mogadorian breeding than I ever wanted to know,’ I say, turning back

to the laptop. ‘If this place is filled with high-ranking Mogs, won’t it be heavily guarded?’

‘There will be guards, yes, but not enough to make a difference,’ he replies. ‘You need to

understand, my people feel safe here. They are used to being the hunters, not the hunted.’

‘So what?’ I continue. ‘We kill a few trueborn Mogs and that’s it? What difference does that

make?’

‘Any losses in trueborn leadership will have wide-ranging impacts on Mogadorian operations. The

vatborn are not particularly good at directing themselves.’ Adam traces his finger across the

immaculately kept lawns of Ashwood Estates. ‘Plus, there are tunnels beneath these houses.’

Malcolm walks around to our side of the table, crossing his arms as he looks at the images. ‘I

thought you destroyed those tunnels, Adam.’

‘I damaged them, yes,’ Adam replies. ‘But they stretch far beyond the rooms we were in. Even I am

not entirely sure what we might find down there.’

Sam looks from Adam to his father. ‘Is that where …?’

‘It’s where they held me,’ Malcolm answers. ‘Where they took my memories. And where Adam

rescued me.’

‘It’s possible we could find a way to restore your memories,’ Adam says, sounding eager to help

Malcolm. ‘If the equipment wasn’t too badly damaged.’

What Adam’s saying makes sense, but I can’t quite bring myself to admit it. I’ve spent my entire

life running and hiding from Mogadorians, fighting them, killing them. They’ve taken everything from

me. And now, here I am, making battle plans alongside one. It just doesn’t feel right. Not to mention

we’re talking about a full frontal assault on a Mogadorian compound with none of the other Garde

backing me up.

As if on cue, Dust wanders over and sits down next to Adam’s feet. He reaches down to absently

scratch behind its ears.

If the animals trust him, shouldn’t I be able to?

‘Whatever we find in those tunnels,’ Adam continues, probably knowing I’m not sold, ‘I am certain

it will provide valuable insight into their plans. If your friends are captured or being tracked, we will know for sure once I’ve accessed the Mogadorian systems.’

‘What if one of them dies while we’re on this mission of yours?’ Sam asks, his voice cracking a

little at the thought. ‘What if they die because we didn’t rescue them when we had the chance?’

Adam pauses, thinking this over. ‘I know this must be hard for you,’ he says, looking between me

and Sam. ‘I admit, it’s a calculated risk.’

‘Calculated risk,’ I repeat. ‘Those are our friends you’re talking about.’

‘Yeah,’ Adam replies. ‘And I’m trying to help keep them alive.’

Logically, I know Adam really is trying to help. But I’m stressed and I’ve been brought up not to

trust his kind. Before I know what I’m doing, I take a step towards him and jab a finger into his chest.

‘This better be worth it,’ I tell him. ‘And if something happens in Florida …’

‘I’ll take responsibility,’ he replies. ‘It’ll be on me. If I’m wrong, John, you can dust me.’

‘If you’re wrong, I probably won’t need to,’ I say, staring into his eyes. Adam doesn’t look away.

Sarah loudly whistles between her fingers, getting everyone’s attention.

‘If we can put the whole macho posturing thing on hold for a second, I think you guys should take a

look at this.’

I step around Adam, telling myself to cool down, and look over Sarah’s shoulder at the website

she’s pulled up.

‘I was looking up news stories about Chicago and this popped up,’ she explains.

It’s a pretty slick-looking website, except for the all-caps headlines and sheer amount of flying

saucer GIFs cluttering the sidebars. The stories listed under Most Popular, all of the links in a neon green that I guess is supposed to look alien, include: MOGADORIANS UNDERMINING GOVERNMENT and

EARTH’S LORIC PROTECTORS DRIVEN INTO HIDING. The page Sarah currently has open features a picture

of the burning John Hancock Center along with the headline MOG ATTACK IN CHICAGO: IS THIS THE ZERO

HOUR?

The website is called They Walk Among Us.

‘Oh jeez,’ Sam groans, joining the huddle around Sarah’s computer. ‘Not these creeps.’

‘What is this?’ I ask Sarah, squinting at the story on the screen.

‘These dudes used to be strictly into the old-school black-and-white zine style,’ Sam says. ‘Now

they’re on the internet? I can’t decide if that makes them better or worse.’

‘The Mogs killed them,’ I point out. ‘How does this even exist in any form?’

‘I guess there’s a new editor,’ Sarah says. ‘Check this out.’

Sarah clicks into the website’s archives, going back to the first story ever posted. The headline

reads PARADISE HIGH SCHOOL ATTACK START OF ALIEN INVASION. Below that is a grainy cell-phone

picture of the destruction around our high school’s football field. I quickly skim the article. The level of detail is astounding. It’s like whoever wrote this was there with us.

‘Who’s JollyRoger182?’ I ask, looking at the screen name credited in the post.

Sarah looks up at me with an odd smile, bewilderment mixing with something like pride.

‘You’re going to think I’m crazy,’ she says.

‘What’s a Jolly Roger, anyway?’ Sam asks, thinking out loud. ‘The pirate flag?’

‘Yeah,’ Sarah replies, nodding. ‘Like the Paradise High Pirates. Whose old quarterback happens to

be one of the only other people outside our group to know what went down at the high school.’

I widen my eyes at Sarah. ‘No way.’

‘Yes way,’ she replies. ‘I think JollyRoger182 is Mark James.’

3

‘ “The Mogadorians, along with their cronies from the corrupted branches of national security, are

believed to have fought a protracted battle in New Mexico against the heroic Garde,” ’ Sam reads

aloud. ‘ “My sources believe the Mogadorians were forced to retreat after their leader sustained an

injury. The whereabouts of the Garde remain unknown.” ’

‘He’s right on the money,’ Malcolm says, turning to me. ‘But where is he getting his information?’

‘No idea,’ I reply. ‘We didn’t exactly stay in touch after Paradise.’

I lean over Sam’s shoulder to check out the next story. I’m baffled by the amount of information

Mark James – or whoever this is – has posted to They Walk Among Us. There are details of our

battle at Dulce Base, early speculation about the attack in Chicago, frightening essays about what

Mogs look like and what they’re capable of, and posts rallying humanity in support of the Loric.

There are also articles covering topics that I’ve never considered, even ones about which members of

the U. S. government are in league with the Mogadorians.

Sam clicks through to a story where Mark accuses the secretary of defense, a man named Bud

Sanderson, of using his political clout to pave the way for a Mogadorian invasion. Another click

yields a second article about Sanderson, one with the tabloid-friendly headline CORRUPT S.O.D. USING

MOGADORIAN GENETIC TREATMENTS. The story is tied to an image of Sanderson from five years ago

juxtaposed with one of him from a few months ago. In the first, Sanderson looks like a haggard man in

his late seventies – his face is age-spotted and he has a double chin and a steep paunch. In the second, he’s lost weight and has a healthy glow and a full head of silver hair. It’s almost as if he’s time-traveled. In fact, I bet most people would think the picture was a hoax, like it’s a photo of Sanderson from twenty years ago with a fake time stamp. But if you take Mark at his word, something’s

definitely changed with the secretary of defense – something way bigger than diet and exercise, or

even plastic surgery.

Sam shakes his head, not buying it. ‘How would Mark possibly know all this? I mean, Sarah, you

went out with him. Did he even know how to read?’

‘Yes, Sam,’ Sarah replies, rolling her eyes. ‘Mark could read.’

‘But he was never, uh, journalistically inclined, was he? This is like WikiLeaks over here.’

‘People tend to change when they find out aliens are real,’ Sarah responds. ‘It looks to me like he’s

been trying to help.’

‘We don’t know for sure that it’s Mark,’ I say, frowning.

I look over at Adam. He’s been quiet since we started exploring the They Walk Among Us website,

listening to us with a hand on his chin, thoughtful.

‘Could this be some kind of trap?’ I ask him, figuring it’s best to consult the expert.

‘Of course,’ he says without hesitation. ‘Although if it is, it’s an elaborate one. And, even for the

sake of trapping you, I find it hard to believe Setrákus Ra would admit to being driven off from Dulce Base.’

‘Is it true?’ Malcolm asks. ‘What he’s written about the secretary of defense?’

‘I don’t know,’ Adam replies. ‘It very well could be.’

‘I’m going to email him,’ Sarah announces, opening up a new browser tab.

‘Hold on,’ Adam says quickly, a bit more polite than when he slammed my idea to try rescuing the

others. ‘If this Mark person really does have access to all this highly secret intel –’

Sam chuckles.

‘– my people will almost certainly be monitoring his communications,’ Adam concludes, raising an

eyebrow at Sam. He turns back to Sarah. ‘They’ll also definitely be monitoring your email.’

Sarah slowly lifts her hands away from the keyboard. ‘Can’t you do anything about that?’

‘I know how their cyber-tracking systems work. It was something I … excelled at during my

training. I could write an encryption code, reroute our IP address through servers in different cities.’

Adam turns to me, like he wants permission. ‘They’d unravel it eventually. We’d have to leave this

place within twenty-four hours to be safe.’

‘Do it,’ I tell him. ‘Better that we keep moving, anyway.’

Adam immediately begins typing commands into his laptop. Sam rubs his hands together and leans

over Adam’s shoulder. ‘You should reroute them to as many crazy places as possible. Make them

think Sarah’s in Russia or something.’

Adam smirks. ‘Consider it done.’

It takes Adam about twenty minutes to write some code that will reroute our IP address through a

dozen far-flung locations. I think back to the elaborate computer system Henri always had set up and

the even more complicated grid that Sandor built in Chicago. Then, I imagine a hundred Mogadorians,

just like Adam, hunched over keyboards, stalking us. I never doubted our Cêpans were justified in

their paranoia, but seeing Adam work I finally realize just how necessary it was.

‘Whoa,’ Sarah says when she’s finally able to open her email. The list of boldfaced unread mail

consists entirely of messages from Mark James. ‘It really is him.’

‘Or the Mogs hacked his email,’ Sam suggests.

‘Doubtful,’ Adam replies. ‘My people are thorough, sure, but this seems kind of … roundabout.’

I glance over the email headings – lots of exclamation points and capital letters. A few months ago

the idea of Mark James spamming my girlfriend would’ve gotten under my skin, but now it seems like

our rivalry was something that happened to someone else, something from another life.

‘When was the last time you checked this?’ I ask.

‘Weeks ago? I don’t really remember,’ Sarah replies. ‘I’ve been a little busy.’

She opens the most recent message from Mark and we all lean in to examine the contents.

Sarah –

I don’t know why I keep sending these emails. Part of me hopes that you’re reading them, using them to help the Loric, and can’t reply for your own safety. Another part of me worries that you aren’t even out there, that you’re gone. I refuse to believe that but …

I need to hear from you.

I thought I had a lead on you in New Mexico. All I found there was a deserted military base. It looked like a major battle went down. Way bigger and nastier than what happened in Paradise. I hope you guys got out safe. I hope like hell I’m not the only one left to fight these assholes. That would suck.

A friend of mine set up a safe house for me. Way off the grid. A place where we can work on exposing those pale freaks to the world. If you can get in touch, I’ll find a way to send you the coordinates. We’re on to something big. Something international. I don’t even know what to do with it.

If you’re reading these, if you’re still in contact with John, now would be a really good time to show up. I need your help.

– Mark

Sarah turns to me, her eyes wide with sudden passion, face set determinedly – I’ve seen that look

before, know it well. It’s the look she gives me right before telling me she wants to do something

dangerous.

Without her even saying anything, I already know that Sarah wants to find Mark James.

The dashboard clock reads 7:45. We’ve got fifteen minutes until the bus leaves for Alabama.

I’ve got fifteen minutes left with Sarah Hart.

Fifteen minutes was about how long it took Adam to encrypt Sarah’s email against any Mogadorian

hackers. She got off a quick note to Mark, who replied almost immediately with an address for a

restaurant in Huntsville. He told Sarah he’d watch the place for the next few days and, if she really

was Sarah Hart, he’d pick her up there and spirit her off to his secret hideout. At least Mark’s being careful, I told myself. That gives me confidence that Sarah will be safe. After that brief

communication, Adam immediately wiped both email accounts from the internet.

Now, here we are.

We’re parked in front of the bus station in downtown Baltimore, the place bustling with activity

even at sunset. I’m behind the wheel, Sarah in the passenger seat next to me. We fit right in, just two teenagers sitting in a crappy car, in the middle of saying good-bye.

‘I keep waiting for the part where you try talking me out of going,’ Sarah says, her smile a little

sad. ‘You’ll say it’s too dangerous, we’ll argue, you’ll lose and I’ll end up going anyway.’

‘It is dangerous,’ I reply, turning so I can face Sarah. ‘And I don’t want you to go.’

‘That’s more like it.’

She takes my hand, lacing her fingers through mine. With my other hand, I run my fingers through

her hair, eventually letting them rest gently on the back of her neck. I pull her in a little closer.

‘But it’s no more dangerous than staying here with me,’ I finish.

‘That’s the overprotective John I know and love,’ she replies.

‘I’m not –’ I start to protest, but cut myself off when I see her teasing smile.

‘These good-byes never get any easier, do they?’

I shake my head. ‘No. They really don’t.’

We fall silent, holding tight to each other, watching the minutes on the dashboard clock slowly

blink away.

Back at the textile factory, we didn’t need to have a huge discussion about Sarah going to find Mark

James. Everyone seemed to agree that it was the right thing to do. If Mark really had managed to

acquire some crucial information on the Mogadorians, and if he was risking his life to help us, then

we needed to return the favor. But the rest of the Garde was still missing. And Adam’s plan to strike

the Mogadorian stronghold in D.C. seemed more and more like the smartest play, a necessary strike to

gather intelligence and show those bastards that we were still in this fight. There’s too much

happening for us to put all our resources into catching up with Mark.

Sarah made it easy by volunteering.

Of course, sending her off alone on a potentially dangerous mission involving an ex-boyfriend isn’t

exactly my favorite idea. But I can’t shake the feeling that the grim future I saw in Ella’s dream is

racing towards us. We need all the help we can get. If there’s even the tiniest possibility that sending Sarah to Alabama could help us win this war, it’s a chance we have to take, my own selfish feelings

be damned.

And anyway, she won’t be totally alone on the trip.

In the backseat, Bernie Kosar stands with his paws braced against the closed window, tail wagging

furiously as he watches all the people zipping in and out of the bus station. My old friend seemed

pretty wiped out after the battle in Chicago, but some of his energy came back when we got on the

road. Once, in Paradise, he’d been my protector. Now he will do the same for Sarah.

‘I don’t want you to think of me as your girlfriend right now,’ Sarah says out of the blue, totally

composed.

I lean back a bit, squinting at her. ‘That’s going to be hard for me.’

‘I want you to think of me as a soldier,’ she persists. ‘A soldier in this war who’s doing what

needs to be done. I don’t know exactly what I’ll find down south, but I have this weird feeling that I’ll be able to help you better from there. At the very least, when it comes to battles, I won’t be around to slow you down.’

‘You don’t slow me down,’ I insist, but Sarah waves this objection away.

‘It’s okay, John. I want to be with you. I want to see that you’re okay, I want to see you win. But not every soldier can be on the front lines, you know? Some do more good when they’re away from the

action.’

‘Sarah …’

‘I’ve got my phone,’ she continues, motioning to the hastily packed backpack at her feet. Inside it

she has a disposable cell phone that Malcolm bought, along with a few changes of clothes and a

handgun. ‘I’ll check in every eight hours. But if I don’t, you have to keep going, keep fighting.’

I get what she’s trying to do. Sarah doesn’t want me rushing off to Alabama if she misses one of her

check-in phone calls. She wants my head in the game. Maybe she can sense it, too – that we’re

nearing the end of this fight, or at least crossing a point of no return.

Sarah looks into my eyes. ‘This is bigger than us, John.’

‘Bigger than us,’ I repeat, knowing it’s the truth yet wanting to fight against it. I don’t want to lose her, and I don’t want to say good-bye. But I have to.

I look down at our interlinked hands and remember how simple things were, at least for a little

while, back when I first moved to Paradise.

‘You know, the first time my telekinesis started working was during that Thanksgiving at your

house.’

‘You never told me that,’ Sarah replies, an eyebrow raised, not sure why I’m suddenly getting

sentimental. ‘Did my mom’s cooking inspire you?’

I chuckle. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. That was the same night Henri had his run-in with the original

They Walk Among Us crew, along with the Mogadorians who were using them. Afterward, he wanted

to leave Paradise, and I refused. Actually, I didn’t just refuse, I used my telekinesis to pin him to the ceiling.’

‘Sounds like you,’ Sarah says, shaking her head and smiling. ‘Stubborn.’

‘I told him I couldn’t go back to living on the run. Not after Paradise. And you.’

‘Oh, John …’ Sarah puts her forehead against my chest.

‘I used to think this war wasn’t worth fighting if I couldn’t be by your side,’ I tell her, gently lifting her chin. ‘But now, after everything that’s happened, after everything I’ve seen – I realize that I’m

fighting for the future. Our future.’

The dashboard clock looms impossibly large in the corner of my eye. Only five minutes left. I focus

on Sarah, wishing I had a Legacy where I could freeze time, or store this moment up. Tears slip down

Sarah’s cheeks and I wipe them away with my thumbs. She puts her hand over mine, squeezing hard,

and I can tell she’s trying to steel herself. She takes a deep, shuddering breath and fights back more tears.

‘I have to go, John.’

‘I trust you,’ I whisper urgently. ‘I don’t just mean to find Mark. If things get bad, I trust you to stay alive. I trust you to come back to me in one piece.’

Sarah grabs the front of my shirt, pulls me in. I feel a few of her tears against my cheek. I try to let everything go – my missing friends, the war, her leaving me – and just live for a while in her kiss. I wish I could go back to Paradise with her, not as it is now, but the way it was months ago – sneakily

making out in my temporary bedroom while Henri was grocery shopping, stealing looks during class,

the easy, normal life. But that’s over. We’re not kids anymore. We’re fighters – soldiers – and we

have to act the part.

Sarah pulls away from me and, in one fluid motion, not wanting to drag this painful moment out any

longer, she opens the door and hops out of the van. She shoulders her backpack and whistles. ‘Come

on, Bernie Kosar!’

BK clambers into the front seat, head cocked at me, as if wondering why I’m not getting out of the

van, too. I scratch him behind his good ear and he lets out a little whine.

Keep her safe, I tell him telepathically.

Bernie Kosar puts both his front paws on my leg and sloppily licks the side of my face. Sarah

laughs.

‘So many good-bye kisses,’ she says as BK jumps down from the van. Sarah clips on his leash.

‘This isn’t good-bye,’ I say. ‘Not really.’

‘You’re right,’ Sarah replies, her smile getting shaky, a note of uncertainty creeping into her voice.

‘I’ll see you soon, John Smith. Stay safe.’

‘See you soon. I love you, Sarah Hart.’

‘I love you, too.’

Sarah turns away, hurrying towards the sliding doors of the bus station, Bernie Kosar trotting along

at her heels. She looks back at me only once, right before she disappears through the doors, and I

wave. Then, she’s gone – into the bus station and eventually off to some secret location in Alabama,

searching for a way to help us win this war.

I have to stop myself from running after her, so I clutch the steering wheel until my knuckles are

white. Too white – my Lumen kicks in unexpectedly, my hands glowing. I haven’t lost control of that

since … well, since back in Paradise. I take a deep breath and calm myself down, glancing around,

making sure no one outside the bus station noticed. I turn the key in the ignition, feel the van rumble to life and pull away from the bus station.

I miss her. I already miss her.

I head back towards one of Baltimore’s rougher neighborhoods, where Sam, Malcolm and Adam

are waiting for me, planning an assault. I know where I’m going and what I’m doing, but I still feel

adrift. I remember my brief scuffle with Adam in the destroyed John Hancock penthouse, how I

almost fell out the window. That feeling of emptiness behind me, of teetering right next to the edge,

that’s how I feel now.

But then I imagine Sarah’s hands pulling me away from that empty space. I imagine what it will be

like when we meet again, what it will be like with Setrákus Ra vanquished and the Mogadorians

beaten back into the cold emptiness of space. I imagine the future and I smile grimly. There’s only one way to make that happen.

It’s time to fight.

4

We hike through the darkness, down a muddy road carved out of the swampland, the rhythmic sucking

noises from our waterlogged sneakers and the incessant chirping of bugs the only sounds. We pass by

a solitary wooden pole, slanted and close to being totally uprooted, the streetlight out, power lines

sagging under the overgrown trees, disappearing into them. It’s a welcome sign of society after two

days spent in the swamps, hardly sleeping, turning invisible at the slightest noise, plodding our way

through muck.

It was Five who led us into the swampland. He knew the way, of course. It was his ambush. We

didn’t have an easy time finding our way out. It’s not like we could’ve gone back to the car we drove

down here, anyway. The Mogs would definitely be watching that.

A few steps ahead, Nine slaps the back of his neck, squashing a mosquito. At the noise, Marina

flinches, and the field of cold she’s been giving off since the fight with Five momentarily intensifies.

I’m not sure if Marina’s having trouble getting control of her new Legacy or if she’s intentionally

cooling the air around us. Considering how humid the Florida swamps have been, I guess it hasn’t

been so bad trekking around with a portable air conditioner.

‘You all right?’ I ask her quietly, not wanting Nine to overhear and yet knowing that’s impossible

with his heightened hearing. She hasn’t spoken to Nine since Eight was killed, has barely said

anything to me.

Marina looks over at me, but in the dark I can’t get a read on her. ‘What do you think, Six?’ she

asks.

I squeeze her arm and find her skin cool to the touch.

‘We’ll get them,’ I tell her. I’m not much for these leader-style speeches – that’s what John does –

so I keep it blunt. ‘We’ll kill them all. He won’t have died in vain.’

‘He shouldn’t have died at all,’ she replies. ‘We shouldn’t have left him out there. Now they have

him, doing Lord knows what to his body.’

‘We didn’t have a choice,’ I counter, knowing it’s true. After the beating we endured at the hands

of Five, we were in no shape to fight off a battalion of Mogadorians backed up by one of their ships.

Marina shakes her head and falls silent.

‘You know, I used to always want Sandor to take me camping,’ Nine butts in out of nowhere,

looking at us over his shoulder. ‘I hated living in that cushy-ass penthouse. But man, after this? I sort of miss it.’

Marina and I don’t respond. That’s the way Nine’s been talking since our battle with Five – these

forced anecdotes about nothing, weirdly upbeat, like nothing serious happened out here. When he

wasn’t rambling, Nine made it a habit to hike ahead of us, using his speed to put some distance

between us. When we caught up, he’d have already caught some animal, usually snake, and be

cooking it over a small fire he built on a rare dry patch of land. It’s like he wanted to pretend we

were just on some fun camping trip. I’m not squeamish; I’d eat whatever Nine caught. Marina never

did, though. I don’t think the roasted swamp creatures bothered her so much as the fact it was Nine

doing the hunting. She must be running on empty by now, even more so than me and Nine.

After another mile, I notice the road getting a little more packed down and well traveled. I can see

light up ahead. Soon, the nonstop buzzing of the local insect life gives way to something equally

annoying.

Country music.

I wouldn’t exactly call this place a town. I’m sure it doesn’t show up on even the most detailed

map. It looks more like a campground that people forgot to leave. Or maybe this is just a place where

the local hunters come to bro around and escape their wives, I think, noticing an overpopulation of

pickup trucks in the nearby gravel parking lot.

There are a couple dozen crude huts scattered throughout this cleared stretch of swamp coast, all of

them pretty much indistinguishable from an old-school outhouse. The huts basically consist of some

pieces of plywood hastily nailed together, and they look like a strong breeze could knock them over. I guess when you’re building at the edge of a Florida swamp, there’s no point in putting too much effort in. Hung between the huts, lighting this grim little vista, are strings of blinking Christmas lights and a few gas-powered lanterns. Beyond the huts, where the solid ground sinks back into the swamp,

there’s a rickety dock with a few tied-up pontoon boats.

The source of the music – the center of this ‘town’ – and the only solid structure built here is

Trapper’s, a sleezy-looking bar housed in a log cabin, the name proudly displayed along the roof in

sizzling green neon. A row of stuffed alligators line the bar’s wooden porch, their jaws open and

searching. From inside, above the music, I can hear men shouting and pool balls cracking.

‘All right,’ Nine says, clapping his hands. ‘My kind of place.’

The place does sort of remind me of the off-the-grid spots I used to hit up when I was alone and on

the run, places where the tight-knit and gritty locals made it easy to spot out-of-place Mogadorians.

Even so, as I notice a scrawny middle-aged guy with a mullet and a tank top staring at us, chain-

smoking in the shadows of the porch, I wonder if we should find a safer place for us to poke our

heads in.

But Nine is already halfway up the creaky wooden steps, Marina right behind him, and so I go

along. Hopefully this place has a phone so we can at least get in touch with the others back in

Chicago. Check to see how John and Ella are doing – hopefully better, somehow, especially now that

we know the cure-all Five claimed to have in his Chest was a bunch of crap. We have to warn the

others about him. Who knows what information he might’ve been feeding to the Mogadorians.

When we push through the swinging saloon doors of Trapper’s, the music doesn’t screech to a stop

like in the movies, but everyone in the bar does turn their heads to stare at us, almost in unison. The place is cramped, not much to it besides the bar, a pool table and some beat-up lawn furniture. It

stinks of sweat, kerosene and alcohol.

‘Hoo boy,’ someone says, then whistles loudly.

I quickly realize that Marina and I are the only two women here. Hell, we might be the first women

to ever set foot inside Trapper’s. The drunks staring at us range from tremendously overweight to

alarmingly skinny, all of them dressed in halfway-open plaid shirts or sweat-stained wifebeaters,

some of them flashing gap-toothed leers, others smoothing down unkempt beards as they size us up.

One guy, in a ripped heavy-metal T-shirt and with a lower lip stuffed with chewing tobacco,

breaks away from the pool table to sidle up next to Marina.

‘This must be my lucky night,’ the guy drawls, ‘because you gi –’

The rest of the pickup line is lost to the ages because the moment this guy tries to slide his arm

around her shoulders, Marina roughly snatches his wrist. I can hear the moisture on his arm crackle as it flash freezes, and a second later the guy is crying out as Marina twists his arm behind his back.

‘Do not come near me,’ she says in a measured tone, loud enough so the whole bar knows that the

warning doesn’t go just for the dude whose arm she’s almost breaking.

Now, the room truly does go quiet. I notice one guy let his beer bottle slip down in his hand so he’s

holding it by the neck, all the better for swinging. A couple of burly guys at a back table exchange

looks and stand up, eyeballing us. For a moment, I think the whole bar might try rushing us. That

would end badly for them, and I try to communicate that with my stare. Nine, who with his tangled

black hair and dirty face fits right in here, cracks his knuckles and lolls his head back and forth,

watching the crowd.

Finally, one of the other hicks at the pool table hoots. ‘Mike, you dumbass, say excuse me and get

over here! It’s your shot!’

‘Sorry,’ Mike whimpers to Marina, his arm turning blue where she’s touching him. She shoves him

away and he goes to rejoin his friends, rubbing his arm and trying to avoid looking at us.

Just like that, the tension breaks. Everyone goes back to what they were doing, which pretty much

means guzzling beer. I figure scenes similar to that – little fights, stare downs, maybe a stabbing or two – must happen in Trapper’s all the time. No big deal. Like I figured, this is one of those places

where nobody asks any questions.

‘Keep it under control,’ I tell Marina as we walk to the bar.

‘I am,’ she replies.

‘Didn’t look like it.’

Nine reaches the bar a step ahead of us, clearing a space between two hunchbacked drunks and

slapping the chipped wooden surface.

The bartender, who looks just a tad more alert and cleaner than his customers, probably because

he’s wearing an apron, looks us over with weary disapproval.

‘You should know I keep a shotgun under the bar. I don’t want any more trouble,’ the bartender

warns.

Nine grins at him. ‘It’s cool, old man. You got anything to eat back there? We’re starving.’

‘I could fry you up some burgers,’ the bartender replies after a moment’s thought.

‘It’s not possum meat or something, is it?’ Nine asks, then holds up his hands. ‘Never mind, I don’t

want to know. Three of your finest, my man.’

I lean across the bar before the bartender can retreat into the kitchen. ‘You got a phone?’

He jerks his thumb towards the bar’s darkened back corner, where I notice a pay phone hanging

cockeyed from the wall. ‘You could try that. It works part of the time.’

‘Looks like everything in here only works part of the time,’ Nine mutters, glancing at the TV

mounted above the bar. The reception is bad at the moment, a news report swallowed up by static, the

crooked rabbit ears emerging from the set not doing their job.

As the bartender disappears into the kitchen, Marina sits down with a couple of stools buffering

her from Nine. She avoids eye contact, engrossed by the popping static on the TV. Meanwhile, Nine

drums his hands on the bar, looking around, almost daring one of the drunks to say something to him.

I’ve never felt so much like a babysitter.

‘I’m going to try calling Chicago,’ I tell them.

Before I can go, the scrawny chain-smoker from outside squeezes into the space at the bar next to

me. He flashes a smirk that’s probably supposed to be charming, except he’s missing a couple of

teeth, and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which look wild and desperate.

‘Hey, honey,’ he says, obviously having missed Marina’s demonstration about what happens when

drunks try flirting with us. ‘Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you my story. It’s a doozy.’

I stare at him. ‘Get away from me.’

The bartender returns from the kitchen, the smell of cooking meat coming with him and making my

stomach growl. He notices the scrawny guy next to me and immediately snaps his fingers in his face.

‘Thought I told you not to come in here if you don’t have any money, Dale,’ the bartender barks.

‘Go on, now.’

Ignoring the bartender, Dale fixes me with one last pleading look. Seeing that I won’t be budged, he

slinks down the bar to beg one of the other patrons for a drink. I shake my head and take a deep

breath; I need to get out of this place, I need a shower and I need to hit something. I’m trying to keep it cool, to be rational about things, especially considering my two companions aren’t acting all that

stable, but I’m angry. Furious, really. Five knocked me out, practically took my head clean off. In that time I was unconscious, the whole world changed. I know I couldn’t have seen it coming – I never

expected one of our own would turn traitor, even a freak like Five. Still, I can’t help but feel it

would’ve been different if I’d had my guard up. If I’d been fast enough to dodge that first punch, Eight might still be alive. I didn’t even get a chance to fight, and it makes me feel cheated and useless. I bottle that rage up, saving it for the next time I see a Mogadorian.

‘Six,’ Marina says, her voice suddenly fragile, not so distant and cold. ‘Look at this.’

The TV over the bar has started coming in, a rolling band of static disrupting the picture now and

then, but a news broadcast is otherwise clearly visible. On it, a windblown reporter stands in front of a line of police tape, the John Hancock Center looming in the background.

‘What the hell?’ I say under my breath. The roof shakes from a sudden peal of thunder outside. That

was me, letting some of that rage slip.

The newscast switches over from the reporter to taped footage of the top floors of the John

Hancock Center in flames.

‘This can’t be happening,’ Marina says, her eyes wide, looking to me for confirmation that this is

just some sick joke. I’ve been trying to be the stable one, but I can’t find anything reassuring to say.

The bartender clicks his tongue, watching the TV, too. ‘Crazy, right? Freakin’ terrorists.’

I lunge across the bar and grab him by the front of his apron before he can even think of reaching

for his hidden shotgun. ‘When did this happen?’ I snap.

‘Damn, girl,’ the bartender says, sensing something in my eyes that makes him decide not to

struggle. ‘I dunno. Like, two days ago? It’s been all over the news. Where the hell you been?’

‘Getting our asses handed to us,’ I mutter, and shove him away. I try to pull myself together, to beat back the panic. Nine’s been completely silent since the report came on. When I look over at him, his

expression is completely blank. He stares at the television, watching footage of our penthouse

headquarters and his former home burning, his mouth open just a little, his body completely still,

almost rigid. He looks like he’s shutting down, as if his brain isn’t capable of processing this latest blow.

‘Nine …,’ I start, and my voice breaks his trance. Without a word to me or Marina, without so

much as a look, he spins around and heads for the door. One of the pool players isn’t quick enough to

get out of Nine’s way and gets shouldered to the floor.

Trusting that Marina won’t freeze anyone to death in my absence, I chase after Nine. By the time

I’m out on Trapper’s porch, Nine has already made it into the parking lot, stalking intently towards

the gravel road.

‘Where are you going?’ I shout after him, hopping the porch railing and jogging to catch up.

‘Chicago,’ he answers bluntly.

‘You’re going to walk to Chicago?’ I ask him. ‘That’s your plan?’

‘Good point,’ he replies, not slowing down. ‘I’ll steal a car. You guys coming or what?’

‘Stop being an idiot,’ I snap, and when that doesn’t slow him down, I reach out with my telekinesis

and grab him. I turn him around so he’s facing me, his heels digging divots in the gravel as he tries to fight.

‘Let me go, Six,’ Nine growls. ‘Let me go right now.’

‘Stop and think for a second,’ I insist, realizing as I start that I’m not just trying to convince Nine but also myself. My fingernails dig into my palms – not sure if that’s from the concentration required to hold Nine with my telekinesis or from me straining to keep it together. Back on the roof of the John Hancock Center, I’d told Sam that we were at war and that there would be casualties. I’d thought I

was prepared for that, but losing Eight – and now maybe losing the others in Chicago – no, I can’t

handle that. That can’t have been my last conversation with Sam. It can’t.

‘They wouldn’t be in Chicago anymore,’ I continue. ‘They’d run. That’s what we’d do. And we

know John is still alive or we’d have another scar. He’s got the tablet; he’s got his Chest. They’ve got a better chance of finding us than we have of finding them.’

‘Uh, last time I saw John he was comatose. He’s not up for finding anyone.’

‘An exploding building tends to wake a person up,’ I counter. ‘He got out. We’d know if he didn’t.’

After a moment, Nine nods reluctantly. ‘All right, all right, let me go.’

I let him loose from my telekinetic hold. He looks away immediately, peering down the darkened

road, his broad shoulders slumped.

‘I feel like we’re screwed, Six,’ Nine says, his voice hoarse. ‘Like we already lost and no one’s

got around to telling us.’

I walk up next to him and put my hand on his shoulder. Our backs to the neon lights of Trapper’s, I

can’t really see Nine’s face, but I’m pretty sure his eyes are wet with tears.

‘Bullshit,’ I reply. ‘We don’t lose.’

‘Tell that to Eight.’

‘Nine, come on –’

Nine shoves both his hands through his tangled black hair, almost like he’s going to pull some out.

Then, he brings his hands down over his face, rubbing it. When he drops them back to his sides, I can

tell he’s trying to be stoic.

‘It was my fault, too,’ he continues. ‘I got him killed.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘It is. Five kicked my ass and I couldn’t help myself. Had to keep talking, had to show him. It

should’ve been me. You know it; I know it; Marina damn sure knows it.’

I take my hand off Nine’s shoulder and punch him in the jaw.

‘Ow! Damn it!’ he yelps, staggering away from me and nearly losing his footing in the gravel.

‘What the hell?’

‘Is that what you want?’ I ask, stepping towards him, fists clenched and ready. ‘Want me to kick

your ass a little bit? Punish you for what happened to Eight?’

Nine holds up his hands. ‘Cut it out, Six.’

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I tell him evenly, unclenching my fists and then jabbing him hard in the chest with my fingers. ‘Five killed Eight, not you. And the Mogadorians are to blame. Got it?’

‘Yeah, I got it,’ Nine replies, although I can’t be sure if I’ve actually gotten through to him or if he just wants me to stop assaulting him.

‘Good. Enough with this mopey crap. We need to figure out what we’re doing next.’

‘I’ve already figured that out,’ Marina chimes in.

I was so intent on beating some sense into Nine that I didn’t hear her approaching. Neither did

Nine, and I can tell by the embarrassed look on his face that he’s wondering how much Marina

overheard. At the moment, Marina doesn’t seem concerned with Nine’s meltdown. She’s too busy

dragging along the scrawny guy from the bar, Dale, the one who wanted to trade me his awesome

story for a beer. Marina leads him across the parking lot towards us, holding his ear like a cruel

teacher escorting a delinquent to the principal’s office. I notice the slightest coating of frost forming on the side of Dale’s face.

‘Marina, let him go,’ I say.

She complies, yanking Dale ahead of her so that he stumbles into the gravel, ending up on his knees

right in front of me. I give her a look – I understand where the violent streak comes from, but I don’t like it. Marina ignores me.

‘Tell them what you told me,’ Marina orders Dale. ‘Your amazing story.’

Dale looks at the three of us, eager to please yet obviously terrified, probably thinking we’re going

to kill him if he doesn’t listen.

‘There’s an old NASA base out in the swamp. Got decommissioned in the eighties when the

swamp started rising,’ Dale begins haltingly, rubbing the side of his face to warm it up. ‘I go out there sometimes, looking for stuff I can sell. Normally, it’s deserted. But last night, man, I swear I saw

UFOs floating around out there. Creepy guys who didn’t look right with guns like I ain’t never seen

guarding the place. You ain’t with them, are you?’

‘No,’ I answer. ‘We most definitely are not.’

‘Dale’s volunteered to show us the way,’ Marina says, nudging Dale with the toe of her sneaker.

He swallows hard and then nods enthusiastically.

‘It’s not far,’ he says. ‘Couple hours through the swamp.’

‘We just spent two days hiking out of that swamp,’ Nine says. ‘Now you want to go back in?’

‘They have him,’ Marina hisses, pointing into the dark. ‘You heard Malcolm’s story about what

they did to Number One. They stole her Legacies.’

I give Marina a sharp look. Even if most of it doesn’t make any sense to him, Dale’s still listening

intently to our conversation. ‘Should we really be talking about this?’

Marina snorts. ‘You’re worried about Dale, Six? They’re killing us and blowing up our friends.

Keeping secrets from this drunk is the least of our worries.’

Dale raises his hand. ‘I swear I won’t say nothing about … about whatever you’re talking about.’

‘What about Chicago?’ Nine asks. ‘What about the others?’

Marina affords Nine only a quick glare. She keeps her eyes on me when she answers. ‘You know

I’m worried about them. But we don’t know where John and the others are, Six. We know where

Eight is. And I am not, under any circumstances, letting those sick bastards keep him.’

The way she says it, I know there’s no way to convince Marina otherwise. If we don’t go with her,

she’ll go by herself. Not that I even consider not going. I’m spoiling for a fight almost as bad as she is. And if there’s a chance Eight’s body is still out there – in the clutches of Mogadorians still

lingering in Florida, maybe with Five – then we have to at least try recovering it. Leave no Garde

behind.

‘Dale,’ I say, ‘I hope you’ve got a boat we can borrow.’

5

The slab of meat in front of me looks like a soggy piece of uncooked fish, except it’s lacking any

texture whatsoever. I poke it with my fork and the pale slab jiggles like gelatin. Or maybe it’s still alive and trying to escape, those unappetizing tremors its attempt to slowly wiggle off my plate. If I look away, I wonder if the thing will pick up the pace and try crawling into one of the air vents.

I want to vomit.

‘Eat,’ Setrákus Ra commands.

He called himself my grandfather. That thought makes me more nauseous than the food. I don’t want

to believe him. This could be just like the visions, some sick game meant to get under my skin.

But why go through all the trouble? Why bring me here? Why not just kill me?

Setrákus Ra sits across from me, all the way down at the opposite end of a ridiculously large

banquet table that looks as if it was carved from lava. His chair is thronelike, made of the same dark stone as the table, but definitely not large enough to accommodate the mammoth warlord we fought at

Dulce Base. No, at some point when I wasn’t watching, Setrákus Ra shrunk down to a more

reasonable eight feet tall so that he could comfortably hunch over his own plate of Mogadorian

cuisine.

Could his size changing be a Legacy? It works really similarly to my ability to alter my age.

‘You have questions,’ Setrákus Ra rumbles, observing me.

‘What are you?’ I blurt out.

He cocks his head. ‘What do you mean, child?’

‘You’re a Mogadorian,’ I say, trying not to sound too frantic. ‘I’m Loric. We can’t be related.’

‘Ah, such a simplistic idea. Human, Loric, Mogadorian – these are just words, dear one. Labels.

Centuries ago, my experiments proved that our genetics could be changed. They could be augmented.

We needn’t wait for Lorien to gift us with Legacies. We could take them as we needed them, utilizing

them like any other resource.’

‘Why do you keep saying we?’ I ask, my voice cracking. ‘You’re not one of us.’

Setrákus Ra smiles thinly. ‘I was Loric once. The tenth Elder. Until the time came when I was cast

out. Then, I became what you see before you: the powers of a Garde combined with the strength of a

Mogadorian. An evolutionary improvement.’

My legs start shaking under the table. I hardly listen after he mentions the tenth Elder. I remember

that from Crayton’s letter. He said my father was obsessed with the fact that our family once had an

Elder. Could that have been Setrákus Ra?

‘You’re crazy,’ I say. ‘And you’re a liar.’

‘I am neither of those things,’ he replies, patiently. ‘I am a realist. A futurist. I altered my genetics to become more like them, so they would accept me. In return for their fealty, I helped their

population grow. I brought them back from the brink of extinction. Joining the Mogadorians gave me a

chance to continue the experiments that so frightened the Loric. Now, my work is almost finished.

Soon, all life in the universe – Mogadorian, human, even what’s left of the Loric – will be improved

under my gently guiding hand.’

‘You didn’t improve life on Lorien,’ I snap back. ‘You killed them all.’

‘They opposed progress,’ Setrákus Ra states, like the death of a whole planet is nothing.

‘You’re sick.’

I’m not afraid to talk back to him. I know that he won’t hurt me – not yet, at least. He’s too vain for that, wants too badly to convert another Loric to the cause. He wants things to be just like in my

nightmare. Since I woke up here, he’s had a team of female Mogadorians attending to me. They

dressed me in this long, black formal gown, very similar to the one I was wearing in my vision. It

itches like crazy, and I have to keep tugging at the neckline.

I stare openly at his hideous face, hating myself for trying to find some resemblance. His head is

bulbous and pale, covered in intricate Mogadorian tattoos; his eyes are empty and black, just like the Mogs; his teeth are filed down and sharp. If I look hard enough, I can almost see the Loric cast to his features, like crumbling architecture buried beneath the paleness and gross Mog artwork.

Setrákus Ra looks up from his food, meeting my gaze. Facing him head-on still gives me a chill and

I have to force myself not to turn away.

‘Eat,’ he says again. ‘You need your strength.’

I hesitate for a moment, not sure how far I should push my insubordination, but also really not

wanting to sample the Mog version of sushi. I make a point of dropping my fork so that it clatters

loudly against the side of my plate. It echoes in the high-ceilinged room – Setrákus Ra’s private

dining area – which is only slightly more furnished than the other cold rooms aboard the Anubis. The walls are covered in paintings of Mogadorians bravely charging into combat. The ceiling is open,

providing a breathtaking view of Earth, the planet imperceptibly rotating below us.

‘Do not push me, girl,’ Setrákus Ra growls. ‘Do as you’re told.’

I push my plate away from me. ‘I’m not hungry.’

He studies me, a condescending look in his eyes, like a parent trying to show a bratty child how

patient they can be.

‘I can put you back to sleep and feed you through a tube, if you’d prefer. Perhaps you’d be better

mannered when I next woke you, once the war was won,’ he says. ‘But then we wouldn’t be able to

talk. You wouldn’t be able to enjoy your grandfather’s victory firsthand. And you wouldn’t be able to

entertain your futile notions of escape.’

I swallow hard. I know we’ll be going down to Earth eventually. Setrákus Ra isn’t going to have

his warships orbit Earth for a while and then float peacefully away. There’s going to be an invasion.

I’ve been telling myself that once we land I’d have a chance to run for it. Obviously, Setrákus Ra

knows that I’d rather die than be his prisoner or his co-ruler or whatever he’s got in mind. But, from the smug look on his face, he doesn’t seem to care. Maybe he thinks he can brainwash me before we

return to Earth.

‘How am I supposed to eat with your nasty face right there?’ I ask him, hoping to see his self-

satisfied look falter. ‘It’s not exactly appetizing.’

Setrákus Ra stares at me like he’s trying to decide whether to leap across the table and throttle me.

After a moment, he reaches to the side of his chair where his cane is propped. Ornately carved from a

shimmering golden metal with an ominous black eye on the handle, it’s the same cane I saw Setrákus

Ra use during the fight at Dulce Base. I brace myself for an attack.

‘The Eye of Thaloc,’ Setrákus Ra says, noticing me eyeing the staff. ‘Like Earth, it will one day be

part of your Inheritance.’

Before I can ask a follow-up question, the obsidian eye in the cane’s handle flashes. I flinch, but it quickly becomes clear that I’m not in any danger. Instead, it’s Setrákus Ra who begins to convulse.

Bands of red and purple light project from the Eye of Thaloc and scan over his body. Although I don’t

exactly know how, I can sense energy moving from the cane into Setrákus Ra. He writhes and contorts

as his skin peels away from his body, expanding outward and shifting, like a bubble forming in

candlewax.

When it’s over, Setrákus Ra looks human. Actually, he looks like a movie star. He’s assumed the

form of a handsome older guy in his mid-forties, with immaculately arranged salt-and-pepper hair,

soulful blue eyes and just a modest amount of stubble. He’s tall, but no longer intimidatingly so, and he’s wearing a stylish blue suit and pressed dress shirt, casually open at the collar. Of his previous appearance, only the three Loric pendants remain, their cobalt jewels matching his shirt.

‘Better?’ he asks, his usual scratchy voice replaced by this man’s smooth baritone.

‘What …?’ I look at him, dumbfounded. ‘Who are you supposed to be?’

‘I chose this form for the humans,’ he explains. ‘Our research shows they’re naturally drawn to

middle-aged Caucasian men of these specifications. Apparently, they find them leaderly and

trustworthy.’

‘Why …’ I try to gather my thoughts. ‘What do you mean, it’s for the humans?’

Setrákus Ra gestures towards my plate. ‘Eat and I will answer your questions. That’s not

unreasonable, is it? I believe the humans call it quid pro quo.’

I look down at my plate and the pale blob waiting for me there. I think about Six and Nine and the

rest of the Garde and wonder what they would do in my situation. It seems like Setrákus Ra wants to

spill his guts, so I should probably let him. Maybe while he’s trying to subtly win me over, he’ll let slip the secret to beating the Mogadorians. If that even exists. Either way, taking a bite of the boiled slug on my plate seems like a small price to pay if it means gathering some important information. I

shouldn’t think of my situation as being held prisoner; it’s more like I’m on a mission behind enemy

lines.

I’m a freaking spy.

I pick up my knife and fork, cut a small square off the edge of the meat and plop it into my mouth.

There’s hardly any taste at all, it’s almost like chewing a wadded-up ball of notebook paper. It’s the texture that really bothers me – the way the meat starts to fizz and melt as soon as it touches my

tongue, breaking down so quickly that I don’t even really chew. I can’t help but think of the way

Mogadorians disintegrate when they’re killed and have to stop myself from gagging.

‘It isn’t what you’re used to, but it’s the best the Anubis is equipped to produce,’ Setrákus Ra says, almost apologetically. ‘The food will improve once we’ve taken Earth.’

I ignore him, not really caring about the finer points of Mogadorian cuisine. ‘I ate, now answer my

question.’

He inclines his head, looking charmed by my directness. ‘I chose this form because the humans will

find it comforting. It’s what I will wear to accept surrender of their planet.’

I gape at him. ‘They’re not going to surrender to you.’

He smiles. ‘Of course they will. Unlike the Loric, who pointlessly fight against impossible odds,

the humans have a rich history of subjugation. They appreciate demonstrations of superior force and

will gladly accept the tenets of Mogadorian Progress. And those who don’t will perish.’

‘Mogadorian “Progress.” ’ I spit the words. ‘What are you even talking about? You’re going to

make everyone like you? A mon –’

I don’t finish my question. I was going to call him a monster, but then I thought back to my vision. I callously ordered Six’s execution right in front of John, Sam and a crowd of people. What if

something like Setrákus Ra is already lurking inside me?

‘I believe there was at least one question in all that vitriol,’ Setrákus Ra says. He maintains his

infuriating smile, made even worse now that he’s wearing a handsome human face, and gestures

towards my plate. I shovel down another bite of the horrible food. He clears his throat like he’s about to give a speech.

‘We share the same blood, granddaughter, which is why you will be spared the fate of those Garde

who foolishly oppose me. Because, unlike them, you are capable of change,’ Setrákus Ra explains. ‘I

may have been Loric once, but over the centuries I have made myself into something better. Once I

control the Earth, I will have the power necessary to change the lives of billions. All they need do is accept Mogadorian Progress. Then my work will at last bear fruit.’

I squint at him. ‘Power? From where?’

Setrákus Ra smiles at me, touching the pendants that hang around his neck. ‘You will see when the

time is right, child. Then, you will understand.’

‘I already understand,’ I reply. ‘I understand that you’re a disgusting, genocidal freak who gave

himself a bad Mogadorian makeover.’

Setrákus Ra’s smile flickers and for a moment I wonder if I’ve pushed my luck too far. He sighs

and drags his fingers across his throat, the skin of his assumed form parting to reveal the thick purple scar around his throat.

‘Pittacus Lore gave me this when he tried to kill me,’ he says, his voice cold and level. ‘I was one

of them, but he and the other Elders cast me out. Banished me from Lorien because of my ideas.’

‘What? Did they not want to elect you supreme ruler or something?’

Setrákus Ra passes his hand across his throat once again and the scar tissue disappears.

‘They already had a ruler,’ Setrákus Ra replies, his voice dropping lower, as if the memory makes

him angry. ‘They just refused to admit it.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

This time, he doesn’t make me take a bite of food. He’s on a roll now. ‘My dear, the Elders were

ruled by the planet itself. Lorien made their choices for them. Who would be Garde and who would

be Cêpan. They believed we should live as caretakers and let nature determine our fates. I disagreed.

The Legacies granted by Lorien are simply a resource, like anything else. Would you let the fish in the ocean dictate who is fit to eat them, or allow the iron in the ground to decide when to be forged? Of

course not.’

I try to digest all this information and compare it with what I learned from Crayton and his letter.

‘You just wanted to be in control,’ I say after a moment.

‘I wanted progress,’ he counters. ‘The Mogadorians understood. Unlike the Loric, they were a

people ready to be elevated.’

‘You’re insane,’ I say, pushing my plate away, done with this whole question-and-answer thing.

‘You are an unenlightened child,’ he replies, that condescending patience back. ‘When your studies

begin, when you see what I have accomplished for you and what the Loric have denied you, then you

will understand. You will come to love and respect me.’

I stand up, even though I have nowhere to go. Setrákus Ra has been gentle with me so far, but it’s

been made crystal clear that I can only move around the sterile hallways of the Anubis as he allows it.

If he wants to keep me here and force me to finish my dinner, he will. It would probably be smoother

for me if I let all his distortions and half-truths go unchallenged, but I just can’t do it. I think of Nine, Six and the others – I know they’d never hold their tongue when faced with this monster.

‘You destroyed our planet and all you’ve ever accomplished is hurting people,’ I say, trying to

mimic my grandfather’s mocking patience. ‘You’re a monster. I will never not hate you.’

Setrákus Ra sighs, his handsome features creasing briefly in consternation.

‘Anger is the last refuge of the ignorant,’ he says, holding up his hand. ‘Let me show you something

they denied you, granddaughter.’

A coil of bright red energy begins to swirl around his raised hand. Nervous, I take a step

backwards.

‘The Elders chose who would escape from Lorien, and you were not meant to be among them,’

Setrákus Ra continues. ‘You were denied the advantages of the other Garde. I will rectify that.’

The energy coalesces into a crackling orb in front of Setrákus Ra’s hand, hovers there for a

moment, and then zips towards me. I dive to the side and the orb alters course, making a beeline for

me like it has a mind of its own. I hit the cold floor in a roll and try to avoid the energy, but it’s too fast. It burns through the hem of my dress and attaches to my ankle.

I scream. The pain is excruciating; it’s as if a live wire is being dragged across my skin. I pull my

leg in towards me and try to slap at the spot where the orb hit, like I’m on fire and need to pat out the flames.

That’s when I first see it. The twisting red energy is gone, leaving behind a band of jagged, pink

scar tissue around my ankle. It’s reminiscent of the angular tattoos I’ve seen etched on dozens of

Mogadorian skulls, but there’s also something unsettlingly familiar about it.

It’s a scar very similar to the ones the Garde have signifying the Loric charm.

When I look up at Setrákus Ra, I have to bite my lip to choke off a scream. The bottom half of his

pant leg has burned away, an identical charm freshly branded into his own ankle.

‘Now,’ he says, smiling beatifically, ‘just like them, we are linked.’

6

I guess in a way we’ve kidnapped Dale. He doesn’t seem to mind. The scrawny redneck is having a

grand old time lounging at the rear of his decades-old pontoon boat, pulling from his flask of

moonshine, and brazenly ogling me and Marina. This boat of his is literally held together in places by duct tape and shoelaces, and we can’t travel through the winding swampland streams too quickly for

fear of overheating the engine. Also, every so often, Nine has to use a bucket to scoop dark brown

swamp water out of the boat before the foot wells collect too much and we sink. Not exactly traveling

in style, but Marina remains convinced that Dale stumbled on a Mogadorian encampment. So, for

now, he’s our guide.

Last night, Dale insisted it was too dark to try navigating the swamp but promised he would lead us

to this decommissioned NASA base in the morning. It turned out that the bartender at Trapper’s rented

the shanties surrounding his place to any swamp people passing through. He gave one to us for next to

nothing, floated us our meal, too, probably sensing that not helping us would just create more trouble.

No one trusted Dale not to run off at his first opportunity, so we decided to take turns keeping

watch on him. Nine drew first shift and ended up sitting with Dale outside our little shack, listening to stories about all the interesting things Dale had scavenged from the swamp.

Marina and I lay down side by side on the flea-bitten mattress tossed on the floor of the shack, the

only other furnishings a hot plate, a rusted-out sink that I don’t think connected to any pipes, and an oil lantern. Considering we’d spent the last couple of days hiking through the swamps and barely resting,

this was about the most comfortable I’d been in days. As we lay there, I noticed that Marina had

stopped radiating the aura of cold she’d been giving off since Eight was killed. I thought maybe she’d fallen asleep, but then she started whispering to me in the darkness.

‘I feel him out there, Six.’

‘What do you mean?’ I whispered back, not understanding. ‘Eight is …’ I hesitated, not able to

bring myself to state the obvious.

‘I know he’s dead,’ she replied, rolling over to face me. ‘But I can still feel his – I don’t know, his essence or something. He’s calling to me. I don’t know why, or how, I just know it’s happening and

that it’s important.’

I fell silent. I remembered Eight’s story about meeting a mysterious old man while hiding out in

India. I think his name was Devdan. The old guy taught him about Hinduism and martial arts and,

eventually, disappeared back to wherever he came from. Eight really cherished what he learned about

Hinduism – I think it helped him cope with his Cêpan’s death. Hell, maybe there’s something to all

that reincarnation stuff. Eight was definitely the spiritual one of us, and if anyone would call out from beyond the grave, it’d probably be him.

‘We’ll find him,’ I said quietly, although I wasn’t exactly confident that would be true. I thought

about what Nine said during his freak-out earlier that night – that we’d already lost the war and no

one had told us. ‘I just don’t know what we’re going to do afterward.’

‘It will reveal itself to us when the time comes,’ Marina replied peacefully, squeezing my hand, the

nurturing Marina I’d gotten to know briefly resurfacing, replacing the angry revenge seeker I’d been

surviving with the last couple of days. ‘I know it will.’

So, this morning, we returned to the swamp. The trees are thick on both sides of the murky water

and we frequently have to slow down to navigate around gnarled but ambitious roots that have spread

into the water. The canopy of branches over our heads is dense, letting sunlight through in patches.

Rotten logs drift by, their bark not always distinguishable from the craggy scales of the alligators

roaming these waters. At least the bugs have stopped biting me. Or maybe I’ve just gotten used to

them.

Marina stands at the front of the boat, her gaze straight ahead, moisture from the air dampening her

face and hair. I stare at her back, wondering if she’s lost it, or if this sixth sense about Eight’s body is another new Legacy manifesting. It’s at times like these we could really use a Cêpan; Marina’s having

a hell of a time controlling her freezing Legacy. Nine and I haven’t brought it up with her – he’s

probably scared she’ll bite his head off, and I’m just counting on her learning to control it at the same time she gets a grip on all that anger. So either this return to the swamp is happening because of a

potentially haywire new Legacy, old-fashioned intuition, grief or legitimate contact with the spirit

world. Maybe a combination of all four.

It doesn’t matter, really. We’re doing this.

It was only a few days ago that Five led us through waters similar to these. We’d been happier then

– I remember Marina and Eight clinging to each other, something sparking there, and Nine whooping

and acting stupid every time he spotted an alligator. I run a hand through my hair – it’s damp from the humidity and knotted from the days spent out here – and remind myself that this is no time for

reminiscing. We’re heading into danger, but at least this time we know it.

‘How much farther?’ I ask Dale.

He shrugs. He’s gotten a lot more comfortable around us since Marina half-froze his face last night.

Probably on account of whatever’s in that flask.

‘’Bout an hour,’ he says.

‘You better not be screwing with us,’ I tell him. ‘If this is bullshit, we’ll leave you out here.’

That makes him sit up a little straighter. ‘I swear it’s true, ma’am. I saw some weird-ass aliens out

here. You bet.’

I glare at him. Nine, finished dumping water over the side of the boat, snatches the flask from

Dale’s hand.

‘What’ve you got in here, anyway?’ Nine asks, sniffing at the flask. ‘Smells like paint thinner.’

‘I mean, it ain’t all paint thinner,’ Dale counters. ‘Try some.’

Nine rolls his eyes and hands him back the flask, then turns to me.

‘Seriously?’ he asks, lowering his voice, more concerned that Marina will overhear than Dale,

who’s sitting right next to us. ‘We’re relying on this guy?’

‘Not just him,’ I reply, shooting a look at Marina. ‘She senses something.’

‘Since when does she …?’ Nine trails off, for once taking a moment to consider his words. ‘It still

seems a little nuts to me, Six. That’s all.’

Before I can respond, Marina waves her hand at us, getting our attention.

‘Cut the engine!’ she hisses.

Dales snaps to and turns off the engine, still not wanting to piss off Marina. Our boat drifts forward silently.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘There’s someone up ahead.’

I hear it then, too. A motor – one that does a lot less hiccupping than Dale’s – getting louder as it

moves increasingly closer. With the zigzag pattern this tributary takes through the trees, we can’t yet see this other boat.

‘Are there other dirtbag swamp people out this far?’ Nine asks, eyeballing Dale.

‘Sometimes,’ Dale replies. He looks around at us, as if something has just occurred to him. ‘Now,

hold on. Are we in danger? Because I didn’t sign up for that.’

‘You didn’t sign up for anything,’ Nine reminds him.

‘Hush,’ Marina snaps. ‘Here they come.’

I could turn us invisible. It occurs to me to grab hold of Marina and Nine, use my Legacy and make

it look like Dale’s alone out here. But I don’t. Marina and Nine don’t look like they’re in any mood to hold hands either.

If there are Mogadorians out there, we want this fight.

I watch a dark outline pass through the clutter of trees and glide into the water in front of us. It’s a pontoon boat just like ours except much sleeker and probably with a few dozen less leaks. As soon as

we come into view, the second boat also cuts its engine. It drifts about thirty yards in front of us, its wake causing us to bob on a gentle wave.

The boat is manned by three Mogadorians. Because of the heat, they’ve removed their stupid black

leather trench coats and stripped down to tank tops, their arms shining pasty white, their blasters and daggers clearly visible along their belts. I wonder what they’re doing out here, brazenly out in the

open, and then realize that they’re probably looking for us. After all, the swamps are our last known

location. These unlucky Mog scouts must’ve drawn swamp duty.

Everyone is very still. We stare at the Mogs, and I wonder if they’ll even recognize us in the state

we’re in. The Mogs stare back, not making any move to restart their boat and get out of our way.

‘Friends of yours?’ Dale slurs.

His voice breaks the standoff. In unison, two of the Mogs reach for their blasters, the third spinning around to restart their engine. I shove forward with my telekinesis, hitting the front of their boat with as much force as I can muster, causing the ship’s bow to rise up from the water. The Mog going for

the engine falls overboard, and the other two go staggering backwards.

A split second after my telekinetic attack, Marina leans over the side and plunges her hand into the

swamp water. A sheet of ice spreads out from her towards the Mogs’ boat, the water cracking and

popping as it flash freezes. Their boat is stuck on a tilt, half out of the water, as the ice floe coalesces around it.

Nine bounds out of our boat, gracefully runs across Marina’s ice floe and hurdles over the side of

the Mogs’ boat. He grabs the nearest Mog around the neck, his momentum and the boat’s sloped deck

causing them to stumble towards the boat’s rear. The second Mog gets his blaster up and aims at

Nine, but before he can fire, Nine plants his feet and tosses the first Mog at his buddy.

The scout who fell overboard tries to climb out of the water and onto Marina’s patch of ice. That’s

a mistake. A jagged icicle rises from the floe’s edge, impaling the Mogadorian. Before that Mog has

even turned to ash, I use my telekinesis to tear the icicle through him and send it plunging into one of the Mogs on the boat. The final Mog, dagger drawn, charges at Nine, but he grabs the Mog by the

wrist, twists backwards and stabs him through the eye with his own blade.

Just like that, it’s over. The whole fight lasted less than a minute. Even as dysfunctional as we seem right now, we can still kill the hell out of some Mogs.

‘Now that was refreshing!’ Nine yells, grinning at me from the other boat.

I hear splashing from over my shoulder and turn around just in time to see Dale swimming

frantically through the swamp water. He must have jumped overboard, and now he’s dog-paddling

away from us as fast as his scrawny arms and drunkenness will allow.

‘Where are you going, idiot?’ I shout after him.

Dale reaches a muddy outcropping of roots and pulls himself on to it, gasping for breath. He stares

at me and the others with wide, wild eyes.

‘You people are freaks!’ he screams.

‘That’s not very nice,’ Nine says, laughing, as he carefully makes his way back on to Dale’s boat,

the ice floe Marina created already beginning to melt in the Florida heat.

‘What about your boat?’ I shout to Dale. ‘You gonna swim back to Trapper’s?’

He squints at me. ‘I’ll figure something out that don’t involve mutant powers, thank you very much.’

I sigh and raise my hand, intending to telekinetically drag Dale’s stupid ass back on to his boat, but Marina touches my shoulder and stops me.

‘Let him go,’ she says.

‘But we need him to find the base,’ I reply.

‘We’re close enough,’ Marina says, shaking her head. ‘And besides –’

‘Uh, holy shit,’ Nine interrupts, shielding his eyes and staring up at the sky.

‘I think we can just follow that thing,’ Marina finishes.

The day suddenly gets very dark. I look up as a shadow passes overhead, cutting off the limited

light that was squeezing through the swamp’s canopy. Through the leaves, all I can see is the armor-

plated hide of a Mogadorian ship as it begins to descend. It’s nothing like the dinky saucer-style crafts that I was able to knock out of the sky with a few well-placed lightning bolts. This ship is enormous, the size of an aircraft carrier, ferocious gun turrets protruding from its belly. The local birds squawk and take flight, darting away from this terrifying giant.

Instinctively, I reach out and grab Nine and Marina, turning the three of us invisible. A boat of

Mogadorians is one thing. I don’t think we’re ready for something this big. The warship above us

doesn’t care, though. It doesn’t notice us. To a ship that size, we’re as insignificant as the mosquitoes.

As it passes, gliding above the swampland and gradually allowing light to re-enter, I feel like I’ve

shrunk, like I’m small again.

Like I’m a child.

And then I remember that last day on Lorien. The nine of us and our Cêpans running for the ship that

would take us to Earth. The screams all around us, the heat of fire from the city, blaster fire hissing through the air. I remember looking up into the night sky and seeing ships just like the one passing

over us, blotting out the stars, their turrets blazing, their cargo doors falling open to let loose hordes of blood-hungry Piken. Above us, I realize, is a Mogadorian warship. It’s what they will use to take

Earth once and for all.

‘They’re here,’ I say, the breath nearly sucked out of me. ‘It’s starting.’

7

Gradually, the suburbs outside Washington, D.C. start to change. The houses become bigger and

farther apart, until eventually they aren’t visible from the road at all. Outside the van windows are

immaculately maintained meadows or miniature parks where the trees are spaced at obsessively

equal intervals, designed to keep the houses behind them hidden from prying eyes. The side streets

branching off from the main road all have prestigious-sounding names like Oaken Crest Way or

Goldtree Boulevard, all of them protected by severe PRIVATE PROPERTY signs.

In the backseat, Sam whistles. ‘I can’t believe they live out here. Like rich people.’

‘No kidding,’ I reply, my hands sweating on the steering wheel. I was thinking the same thing as

Sam but don’t really feel like talking about it, worried that I won’t be able to keep the jealousy out of my voice. I’ve spent my entire life on the run, dreaming about living in places like this – stable, quiet places. And here are the Mogs, carving out a normal life for their trueborn upper class, living the high life on a planet they’re only looking to exploit and destroy.

‘The grass is always greener,’ Malcolm says.

‘They do not appreciate it, if that’s any consolation,’ Adam says quietly, the first words he’s

spoken since we started on these last few miles to Ashwood Estates, his former home. ‘They are

taught not to enjoy something unless they can possess it.’

‘What’s that mean, exactly?’ Sam asks. ‘Like, if a Mogadorian went to the park …?’

‘ “One takes no satisfaction from that which one cannot hold,” ’ Adam recites, suppressing a sneer

when he finishes the quotation. ‘That is from Setrákus Ra’s Great Book. A Mogadorian wouldn’t care

about your park, Sam, not unless the trees were his to chop down.’

‘Sounds like a great book,’ I say dryly.

I glance over at Adam, next to me in the passenger seat. He’s staring out the window, a distant look

on his face. I wonder if this is strange for him – it’s basically a homecoming, even though he’s not

actually from Earth. Adam turns his head, notices me looking at him and seems almost embarrassed.

His expression quickly changes to one I’m familiar with – cold Mogadorian composure.

‘Pull over here,’ he instructs. ‘It’s only a mile farther on.’

I pull the van over to the side of the road and kill the engine. Without the noise from the van, the

constant chirping from behind me seems even louder.

‘Jeez, guys, calm down,’ Sam says to the box of excited Chimærae sitting on the bench between

him and Malcolm.

I turn around to look down at the Chimærae, all of them in bird form. Regal, whose resting form is

a stately hawk, perches next to a trio of more common birds – a pigeon, a dove and a robin. Then

there’s a sleek gray falcon that must be Dust and an overweight owl that has to be Stanley. All of them have lightweight leather collars strapped gently around their necks.

This is step one of our plan.

‘Is everything working?’ I ask Sam, who looks up from the laptop resting on his legs and grins at

me.

‘Check it out,’ Sam says proudly, turning the laptop to face me. Using the Chimærae in this way

was his idea.

Tiled on the laptop screen are half a dozen grainy video feeds, each of them showing my face from

a slightly different angle. The cameras are working.

On our way from Baltimore to Washington we stopped at a dark little storefront called SpyGuys

that specializes in cameras and home-security gear. The clerk didn’t ask Malcolm why he needed to

purchase more than a dozen of their smallest wireless cameras; he seemed grateful for the business

and even showed us how to install the necessary software on one of our laptops. After that, we picked

up the collars at a pet store. The others carefully attached the cameras to them while I drove south

towards Washington.

The Mogadorians have spent so much effort running surveillance on us, stalking us. Now we’re

going to turn the tables.

‘Spread out around Ashwood Estates,’ I tell the Chimærae, punctuating my command with a mental

picture of the satellite photos of Ashwood that I’ve been studying since yesterday and sending that on to the flock telepathically. ‘Try to cover every angle. Focus especially on where the Mogadorians

are.’

The Chimærae respond with enthusiastic cawing and a fluttering of wings.

I nod to Sam and he throws open the van’s side door. What follows is a wild flurry of activity, our

half dozen shape-shifting spy birds taking off all at once, a funnel of squawking and flapping wings as they fly out of the van. As serious as our situation is, there’s something awesome about the sight; Sam is grinning and even Adam allows himself a small smile.

‘This is going to work,’ Malcolm says, patting Sam on the back. Sam’s smile increases just a little

bit more.

The view on the laptop screen is disorienting, the Chimærae all swooping and gliding in different

directions. The first to settle into some trees position themselves right above the wrought-iron gates of Ashwood Estates. A gate is built into a brick wall there; the wall stretches for a few yards and

then, presumably once it’s no longer visible from the road, turns into a more sinister-looking barbed-

wire fence.

‘Guards,’ I say, pointing out the trio of Mogadorians, two of them sitting in the gatehouse, one of

them pacing in front of the gate itself.

‘That’s it?’ Sam asks. ‘Only three of them? That’s nothing.’

‘They do not expect a frontal attack. Or any attack, really,’ Adam explains. ‘Their purpose is

mainly to scare off any drivers who might make a wrong turn.’

As the remaining Chimærae settle on to rooftops and tree branches, the video feeds snapping into

focus, I start to get a clearer idea of Ashwood Estates’ layout. Beyond the front gate is a short but

winding entrance road with very little cover. That road leads to what is essentially a very large cul-

de-sac, about twenty well-appointed houses arranged around a central recreation area. Apparently,

the Mogadorians have picnic tables, basketball hoops and a pool. All in all, it’s an idyllic swath of

suburbia, except there’s no one around.

‘Seems quiet,’ I say, scanning the feeds. ‘Is it always like this?’

‘No,’ Adam admits. ‘Something isn’t right.’

One of the Chimærae takes flight and repositions itself, getting an angle on one of the houses that

we couldn’t see before. A trash truck is parked at the curb, its engine off.

‘There’s someone,’ Sam says, enlarging the feed.

A solitary Mogadorian holding a tablet computer stands next to the truck. He looks bored as he

thumbs something into the tablet.

Adam squints at the tattoos on the Mogadorian’s scalp. ‘An engineer,’ he says.

‘You can tell that?’ I ask.

‘It’s in the tattoos. For trueborn, those are symbols of honor and what they’ve accomplished. The

vatborn get job titles,’ Adam explains. ‘Makes it easy to order them around.’

‘There’s more,’ Sam points out.

We watch as four Mogadorian warriors carry a refrigerator-sized piece of computer equipment out

of the house. They take it towards the curb and set it down in front of the engineer, then wait around while he circles the machine and inspects it.

‘Looks like a server,’ Malcolm observes. He turns to Adam. ‘Could they be replacing the

equipment you destroyed?’

‘Possibly,’ Adam replies, but he doesn’t sound certain. He points out a two-level house with a

porch a few doors down from where the Mogadorians are working. ‘That’s my old home. I know for

certain there’s an access point to the tunnels through there, but the other houses likely have access, too.’

While Adam’s talking, the engineer finishes his inspection of the server. He shakes his head, and

the other Mogs pick the equipment back up. They toss it into the trash truck, then return to the house.

‘I guess they aren’t big on recycling, huh?’ Sam says.

Before the first group of Mogs can head back into the house, a second group emerges. They’re

carrying what looks like a barber’s chair from a bad sci-fi movie, the thing equal parts futuristic and frightening, wires and nodes dangling from it. The engineer hustles forward to meet this second group, helping them to ease the equipment gently on to the grass of the front yard.

‘I recognize that,’ Malcolm says, an edge to his voice.

‘Dr Anu’s machine,’ Adam says, turning to me. ‘That’s what they used on Malcolm. And on me.’

‘What’re they going to do with it now?’ I ask, watching the engineer begin his inspection.

‘This looks like a salvage team,’ Adam explains. ‘I did some damage to the tunnels the last time I

was here. Now, they’re saving what equipment they can and getting rid of the rest.’

‘What about all the trueborns who were supposed to be here?’

Adam grimaces. ‘They might have been evacuated until this place can be brought up to spec.’

I widen my eyes at Adam. ‘So we drove out here for nothing? The trueborn are already gone and

the machine is busted.’

‘No,’ he says, and I can see the gears turning behind his eyes. ‘If we can take out this salvage team

before they get off a distress call, we’d have complete access to what’s left of Ashwood. From there,

we can get on to their network –’

‘And that gets us what?’

‘It’s like if one of my people could open one of your Chests, John. We’ll know their secrets. What

they’re planning.’

‘We’ll be one step ahead,’ I say.

‘Yes.’ Adam nods, watching the engineer as he evaluates Dr Anu’s machine. ‘But we should get in

there. What the salvage team decides to destroy could still be useful to us.’

‘All right,’ I say, watching the Mog salvage team head back into the house. ‘So, is there a secret

entrance or something?’

‘At this point, I think a direct assault is our best bet.’ He looks at me. ‘That all right with you?’