The Revenge of Seven

‘Hell yes,’ I reply. Originally, we’d planned to use our network of Chimærae surveillance to

observe the Mogs for a while, figure out the most strategic approach to attacking. But, now that we’re here, I find myself itching to go into battle. I need some payback for everything they’ve done – for

taking Ella, destroying Nine’s home, killing one of my friends. If Adam says we need to rush in, I’m

ready to go.

Malcolm grabs a box from under the seat. From within, he produces two earbuds, one for me and

one for Adam. The devices are connected to the pair of walkie-talkies Sam and Malcolm will be

using. I slip mine into my ear and Adam does the same.

‘Are we at all concerned with the local authorities?’ Malcolm asks. ‘A firefight in broad daylight

might attract some attention.’

Adam shakes his head. ‘They’re bought off,’ he says, then looks at me. ‘We will want to be quick,

though. Kill them before they can call for reinforcements. If I can get past them into my old house, I should be able to cut off their communications.’

‘I can do quick,’ I reply.

I strap my Loric dagger to my calf, hidden under my trouser leg. Next, I clip my red bracelet around

my wrist. The amber jewel in its center that expands to form a shield shimmers in the midday sun.

Immediately, the bracelet jolts me with icy pinpricks, warning me there are Mogs in the area. Of

course it would – there’s one sitting right next to me. Adam’s presence is going to really wreak havoc on my danger sense.

‘Ready?’ I ask him.

Next to me, Adam pulls on an over-the-shoulder holster, a silenced handgun now hanging under

each of his armpits. He nods.

‘Whoa, hold on,’ Sam says. ‘Check out this guy.’

Adam and I turn back to the laptop, watching as another Mogadorian emerges from the house the

salvage team is currently unloading. He’s tall and broad shouldered, bigger than the others, and with a more regal bearing. Unlike the others, he has a huge sword strapped across his back. While we

watch, he barks some orders at the engineer, then disappears back into the house. When I glance over

at Adam, his face is somehow more pale than usual.

‘What is it?’

‘Nothing,’ he says, too quickly. ‘Just watch out for that one. He’s a trueborn general, one of

Setrákus Ra’s most trusted men. He …’ Adam hesitates, watching the spot on the monitor this general

just occupied. ‘He has killed Garde before.’

I feel heat rushing to my hands. If I wasn’t ready for a fight already, I definitely am now.

‘He’s dead,’ I say, and Adam merely nods, opens his door and gets out of the van. I look to Sam

and Malcolm. ‘We’ll approach on foot, take out the guards and then you pull up to cover our back.’

‘I know, I know,’ Sam says. ‘I’ll watch the monitor and shout in your ear when I see trouble.’

Malcolm has already started unpacking his sniper rifle from its case. I saw him use that thing in

Arkansas – he saved my ass. There’s no one I’d rather have watching my back than the Goodes.

‘Be careful,’ Malcolm says, raising his voice so Adam can hear. ‘Both of you.’

Sam and I slap hands. ‘Give them hell,’ he says.

And then I’m out of the van, moving at a brisk jog towards the Mogadorian stronghold. Adam keeps

up alongside me.

‘John,’ he says, our feet crunching in the gravel on the side of the road. ‘There is something else

you should know.’

Of course. Just when I was beginning to let my guard down around this guy, right when we’re going

into battle together, he’s going to spring something on me.

‘What is it?’

‘The General is my father.’

8

I almost skid to a stop, but Adam doesn’t seem to be slowing down any, so I keep pace with him.

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘No.’ Adam frowns, focusing on the road ahead. ‘We don’t exactly get along.’

‘Are you going to …’ I don’t even know how to phrase this. ‘Will you be able to …?’

‘Fight? Kill?’ Adam replies. ‘Yes. Show him no mercy, because he won’t show any to us.’

‘Your own father, man? I mean, even for a Mogadorian, that’s pretty cold.’

‘At this point, defeating him in battle is likely the only way he’ll ever feel pride for me,’ Adam

replies, adding weakly, ‘not that I care.’

I shake my head. ‘You guys are so screwed up.’

We fall silent as the entrance to Ashwood Estates comes into view. The Mogadorian in front of the

gates spots us and shields his eyes from the sun, trying to get a better look. We keep up a steady pace and don’t make any attempt to conceal ourselves. We’re separated from the gates by about fifty yards

and closing fast, but to the Mog we might look like just a couple of joggers. He won’t notice the guns strapped to Adam just yet.

‘Wait until we’re a little closer,’ I say through gritted teeth, and Adam nods.

At thirty yards, the Mog turns his head, saying something to his two buddies in the gatehouse.

Warning them that something might be up. I see them stand up, silhouetted in the window, peering out

at us. The Mog in front edges back a bit, his fingers inching towards the blaster surely hidden under

his coat. But he hesitates, probably still thinks he’s being paranoid.

They really never thought we’d come for them. They aren’t prepared.

With twenty yards to go, I fire up my Lumen, flames roaring across my hands. Next to me, in stride,

Adam draws both his guns and takes aim.

The closest Mog tries to pull his blaster, but he’s way too slow. Adam fires two shots, one from

each gun, both of them muffled by silencers. Struck twice in the chest, the Mog teeters for a moment

and then explodes into a cloud of ash.

I launch a fireball at the gatehouse. The Mogadorians inside are scrambling around but, like their

friend, are also too slow. The fireball explodes through the window, sending glass everywhere, and

causing one of the Mogs to go up in flames. The other one manages to throw himself out the door,

flames dancing up his back. He’s standing right in front of Ashwood’s locked entrance, so I reach out

with my telekinesis and tear the wrought-iron gate off its hinges, crushing the Mog.

‘Think the others heard us?’ I ask Adam, as we step around the bent metal gate and into Ashwood

Estates.

‘Our entrance did lack subtlety,’ Adam observes.

Sam’s voice crackles in my ear.

‘Four of them running up the access road,’ he warns. ‘Blasters ready.’

The access road is uphill with a slight bend at the top after which we’ll be at the housing

development. There isn’t a whole lot of cover on the way.

‘Stay behind me,’ I tell Adam.

Just then, the Mogs come around the bend. They don’t ask any questions before unleashing a volley

of blaster fire. Adam leaps behind me just as my shield deploys – it’s like a parachute exploding out

of my arm, the rippling crimson material spreading to absorb the blasts. Adam grabs hold of the back

of my shirt.

‘Go forward,’ he says.

I do, the shield absorbing more blaster fire as I press towards the Mogs. The bracelet is now a

steady, numbingly painful buzz against my wrist. Carefully following my steps to keep from getting

shot, Adam pops around the edge of the shield, gunning down two of the Mogs in one go. Realizing

they’re not making any progress, the other two try to retreat. I lower my shield and launch a fireball that explodes between them, knocking them both to the ground. Adam finishes them off with some

well-aimed gunfire. Out of danger for now, my shield retracts back into my bracelet.

‘Not bad,’ I tell him.

‘We’re just getting started,’ he replies.

We run down the access road around the bend, and the opulent homes of Ashwood Estates finally

come into view. There’s no one out and all the windows are dark; the whole place feels like a ghost

town. To our right, I see Adam’s old house, and a few houses down from that is the trash truck and the high-tech chair the engineer was inspecting. The salvage teams, the engineer and the General are

nowhere to be seen.

‘They’re coming from the backyard!’ Sam yells.

Both Adam and I spin around in time to see a squadron of Mog warriors sneaking towards us

between two of the houses. It would’ve been a pretty good ambush if we didn’t have scouts perched

in their trees. As they raise their blasters, Adam is ready. He stomps the ground and a concussive

wave of force rolls in their direction, pavement and chunks of grass rippling upward. The closest

Mogs are completely thrown off their feet, others stagger and one of them accidentally discharges his

blaster into another’s back.

‘I’ll finish them off!’ I tell Adam. ‘You go make sure they aren’t calling reinforcements.’

Adam nods, then sprints across the lawn towards his old house. Meanwhile, next to the stunned

Mogadorians, I notice a metal tank that had come unmoored from where it was attached to a house.

With my hearing focused, I can hear a faint hiss emanating from the tank. I almost laugh at my luck.

It’s a gas line.

I launch a fireball at the Mogs before they can collect themselves. It whizzes right by the lead Mog,

who I think actually smirks at me, thinking that I’ve missed in those two seconds before the propane

tank explodes, incinerating the lot of them. The windows of the two adjacent houses are all blown

inward from the force, large black singe marks forming on the outside, grass burning. I have to stop

myself from appreciating the destruction – it feels almost cathartic to destroy this place, to tear down what the Mogs have built, after how many times they’ve torn down my attempts at a normal life.

‘Damn, dude,’ Sam says in my ear. ‘We felt that over here.’

I yank my walkie-talkie off the back of my jeans. ‘What’s it look like, Sam?’

‘You’re clear,’ he says. ‘It’s weird. I thought there’d be more of them.’

‘They could be down in the tunnels,’ I reply, starting towards the house Adam rushed into. I scan

the empty windows as I go, wary of any Mogs who might be lying in wait. It’s just too damn quiet.

‘And that huge-ass general guy,’ Sam says. ‘He wasn’t with the ones you blew up.’

I’m crossing the lawn towards Adam’s house when the front window shatters and Adam’s body

comes flying out. His legs smack hard against the porch railing and he’s turned head over heels,

flipped like a rag doll into the front yard. I run to him as he shakily tries to pick himself up.

‘What happened?’ I shout.

‘Father … isn’t happy,’ he groans, looking up at me as I crouch down over him. There’s a huge

piece of glass sticking out of his cheek, a trickle of dark blood running down his neck. He yanks it out and tosses it aside.

‘Can you get up?’ I ask, grabbing his shoulder.

Before Adam can answer, a booming voice interrupts. ‘Number Four!’

The General strides confidently through the front door, looking down at me from the porch. He’s

huge and muscular. The tattoos splashed across his pale skull are way more intricate than any Mog

I’ve seen outside of Setrákus Ra. I sense motion behind him – other Mogadorians, I can’t be sure how

many. They don’t come out of the house. It’s almost like the General wants to do this alone.

I stand up and face him, my hands glowing and hot, a fireball floating in my palm.

‘You know who I am, huh?’ I ask him.

‘Indeed. I have long hoped we would meet.’

‘Uh-huh. If you know me, then you know you don’t stand a chance against me.’ I crane my neck to

look past him. ‘None of you do.’

The General actually smiles. ‘Very good. Bravado. A welcome change of pace. The last Loric I

encountered ran. I had to stab him in the back.’

I decide I’ve had enough talk and whip the fireball at him. The General sees it coming, hunkers low

and in one surprisingly fluid motion draws his sword from its sheath. He slices the air in front of him just as the fireball gets close, and the glowing Mogadorian blade absorbs my attack.

Not good.

The General leaps off the porch, sword raised above his head, and brings it down in a vicious arc

towards me. He’s fast – way faster than the other Mogs I’ve been fighting – and my shield barely has

time to deploy before his sword would cleave me in two. The shield rebuffs the blade with a loud

clang, but the force is still enough to knock me backwards and off my feet.

‘John!’ Adam shouts, and the General, having landed right next to him, takes a moment to kick his

son hard across the face. Adam screams, rolling away.

‘You are a perpetual disappointment,’ the General seethes at Adam, so low I can barely hear his

words. ‘Stay down and I may yet show you mercy.’

I pop on to my knees quickly, channeling another fireball. The General points his sword at me and I

feel something like a rush of air, almost like the blade is sucking in the energy around it. My fireball gutters and shrinks, forcing me to focus harder to build it bigger. Meanwhile, the grass around the

General goes from green to brown, the blade draining the life from it. I haven’t seen one of the Mogs

armed with a weapon like this since that fight in the woods outside Paradise High.

‘Don’t let it hit you!’ Adam warns, spitting blood.

But his warning is too late. A dagger-shaped bolt of energy tears loose from the General’s blade

and screams towards me; the energy is black, or more like devoid of any color at all, and changes the

very texture of the air that it passes through, sucking up life and oxygen, like a mini black hole.

I don’t have a chance to dodge it. My shield deploys, expanding in the usual umbrella-like way, but

immediately turns black and brittle when the General’s blast hits. Frozen like that, my shield slowly

begins to crumble, blown away like so much Mogadorian ash. Dark, rustlike veins begin to spread

through the bracelet itself, and I hurriedly snap it off before they make contact with my skin. When it hits the ground, my bracelet breaks in half.

The General smiles at me again and asks, ‘Now will you run?’

9

The Mogadorians who were taking cover inside the house start to laugh. One by one, they filter onto

the porch, eager to get a closer look as their great general dispatches one of the Garde. There’s a

couple dozen of them, the salvage team plus some warriors and scouts, all of them vatborn. Not

exactly the high-priority targets we were hoping for, but that doesn’t matter now. There are only two

trueborn Mogs in Ashwood Estates – one of them is Adam, and he’s laid out in the grass just a few

yards from me, dark blood dripping from his face.

The other is charging right at me.

As the General bears down on me, sword leveled at my throat, there’s a moment where I think we

might have bitten off more than we can chew, Adam and me trying to take on an entire Mogadorian

town.

But then I remember it isn’t just the two of us.

With a shriek, Dust, still in falcon form, dive-bombs the General. His talons sink deep into the

General’s face, the huge Mogadorian grunting in pain before he manages to backhand Dust away.

It’s exactly the distraction I need. Quickly, I form another fireball and pitch it at the General. This time, he doesn’t have a chance to get his sword up, and the fire hits him right in the chest. I expect him to at least be knocked off his feet, but the General merely stumbles back a few steps. The front of his uniform burns away, revealing a carapace of obsidian Mogadorian armor beneath.

Dust, stunned by the blow, flops into the grass at the General’s feet. He brings his sword down

hard at the Chimæra, but Dust transforms into a snake at the last second and manages to slither through the grass away from the blade. The General, fresh claw marks across his face, swings his gaze back

to me.

‘Hiding behind your pets!’ the General bellows. ‘Disgraceful. Fight me with honor, boy. No more

tricks.’

I hold up my hand and smile at the General, noticing the birds fluttering in from all sides. ‘Hold on.

Just one more trick.’

And that’s when the rhinoceros drops from the sky.

One moment the Chimæra – I’m not even sure which one – is a robin flying innocently above the

heads of the Mogadorians; the next it’s a half-ton African rhino belly-flopping on top of them. A

couple of the Mogs on the porch are crushed outright, the wood breaking and splintering, the front of

the house even sinking a little at the beast’s weight. Another Mog is gored by the rhino as it starts to rampage around. The other Mogs spill into the yard, blasters firing. They aren’t laughing anymore.

This whole noble execution the General had them watching has been ruined by our small army of

Chimærae.

It’s chaos. All around us, birds are morphing into more lethal forms – a bear, a couple of jungle

cats and a lumbering lizard thing that I think is a Komodo dragon – and running down the

Mogadorians. I see some of the Chimærae sustain blaster burns as the Mogs fire madly at them, trying

desperately to regroup. They won’t be able to hold out long. For once, we’ve got the element of

surprise.

‘Looks like you should be the one running,’ I yell at the General as I square up with him. Truth be told, I’m not sure what to do with him. He is Adam’s father, after all. Adam told me to show no

mercy, but it still feels wrong to kill a father in front of his son, even if they are Mogadorians. I glance over to Adam, hoping he’ll at least give me a thumbs-up or thumbs-down, but he’s still crumpled in

the grass, struggling to pick himself up. Dust is next to him in wolf form, also looking a little beaten up, gently licking Adam’s face.

‘My name is already written in the histories as a killer of Garde!’ the General roars back at me, not

even caring about the decimation of his men going on behind him. ‘If today is the day I die, I will take you with me.’

He charges me, sword stabbing right for my sternum. I hold up my arm, expecting my shield to

deploy and deflect the blow. It takes me a split second to remember my wrist is bare, my shield

destroyed. The General almost skewers me for my over-reliance on my bracelet. I have to spin to the

side at the last second and can feel how close I came, his blade tearing through the back of my shirt.

The General’s sword might miss, but his elbow doesn’t. Using his momentum to swing around, he

catches me right in the temple. He must be wearing that Mogadorian armor all over his body, because

the elbow feels more like a hammer. I stumble to the side, seeing stars. The General slashes at me

again, and I just barely manage to lash out with my telekinesis, shoving him backwards. His heels dig

up tufts in the grass as he refuses to leave his feet.

Instead of charging back at me, the General levels his sword, another minivortex developing at the

blade’s tip. I’m caught out – no shield, no cover – and I know I can’t let that life-draining energy hit me. I brace myself, ready to dive aside.

Before the sword can discharge, the General’s right hand explodes. He roars and drops his blade,

holding up his hand to look at the nickel-sized hole through the palm that wasn’t there a second ago.

‘Dad says, “You’re welcome,” ’ Sam’s voice chirps in my ear.

I glance over my shoulder to see our van parked on the access road. Malcolm Goode stands next to

the driver-side door, using it for cover as he peers through the scope of his rifle.

‘Interlopers,’ the General growls. Before Malcolm can fire another shot, the General takes off at a

sprint, using the trash truck for cover. He’s surprisingly fast considering his bulk and that full suit of armor.

Well, I’d wanted him to run.

I chase after him, thoughts of how he hunted and killed Garde fueling me. Out of the corner of my

eye, I see a Mog warrior draw a bead on me with his blaster. As he fires, a Chimæra in the shape of a

black panther leaps on to his back. The blast sails wide and ends up shearing in half the chair Dr Anu used in his experiments. I know our goal was to keep this Mog technology in tact, but that doesn’t

matter to me now. I’m seeing red. The General – so proud of killing Garde. Killing children.

I’m going to write the last chapter in his precious history. Right now.

As I come around the trash truck, I see the General has made it to the basketball courts and stopped.

He beckons me onward, waiting for me at center court. I charge in, ignoring the part of me that knows

he’s setting me up for some kind of trap. Whatever it is, it won’t stop me.

The General growls something in Mogadorian. It sounds like a command. Under my feet, beneath

the asphalt, a generator of some kind vibrates to life.

I feel a static charge as a dome-shaped force field rises up over the basketball court, trapping me

with the General. Everything is suddenly very quiet, the noise of the Chimærae mauling the

Mogadorians blocked out by the force field.

I take a step away from the nearest wall, sensing the same type of electric jolt that we encountered

at the base in West Virginia. I remember how sick I was after that – it took me days to recover – and

know that I can’t get too close.

Even as I’m thinking this, an over-eager Chimæra in the shape of a tiger flings herself at the

General. The blue energy repulses the pouncing Chimæra, shocks her and leaves her in a convulsing

heap on the ground, still very much outside the force field.

‘We used to fight Piken against each other in this place,’ the General muses, waving his hand at the

enclosed space. ‘It was a reward for the vatborn. Pity more of them aren’t here to witness today’s

contest.’

‘You want some alone time with me, is that it?’ I taunt the General, making sure to put some

distance between me and the force field.

‘I want to kill you in peace,’ he replies. ‘With your many friends watching helplessly.’

‘Good luck with that.’

Without hesitation, I charge towards the General, pitching fireballs at him as I go. He absorbs each

of them. Huge chunks of his uniform burn away, but I don’t seem to be doing any damage to the armor

underneath. Not letting any pain register on his face, the General rushes right for me, like he’s going to barrel into me.

He probably weighs a solid two hundred pounds more than me with that armor. But screw it.

We crash together and the wind goes out of me, but I manage to stay upright. I press my hand, still

engulfed by the flames of my Lumen, against the side of the General’s face. He lets out a grunt of pain, but that’s his only reaction to me burning his face, his pale skin searing black and popping. Both of his hands wrap around my throat, big enough that his fingers overlap at the back of my neck.

He squeezes my neck and immediately dark spots form in my vision. I can’t breathe. With the hand

not burning the side of the General’s face, I pry at his fingers. It feels like my throat will completely collapse if I let his grip get any tighter.

It’s hard to concentrate with him choking me, but I manage to keep up the intensity of my Lumen

while simultaneously using my telekinesis. I maneuver my dagger out from beneath my trouser leg.

Without a free hand, I gather as much telekinetic force as I can muster and send the blade lancing

towards the General’s heart.

My dagger deflects off his armor. Before I can stab at him again, he tightens his grip on my throat

and I lose control of my telekinesis. Feeling faint, it’s all I can do to keep my Lumen burning against the side of his face.

‘Who do you think will die first, boy?’ the General sneers, smoke from his own burned face

spilling out of his mouth when he speaks. I try to backpedal, to break away from him, but he puts all

his weight down, forcing me to my knees.

Suddenly, a Mogadorian sword is thrust towards my face. Unable to move my head, I can only

flinch backwards. The tip of the glowing blade stops just short of my eye. The General’s grip

slackens and then drops away entirely. I fall on to my side, gasping for breath, trying to figure out

what just happened.

‘Through the back. Isn’t that how you do it, Father?’

Adam holds the General’s broadsword in two hands – it’s almost too heavy for him – and yanks it

out of his father’s back. He drove it straight through the General’s chest, the glowing blade piercing that Mogadorian armor as if it were made of tinfoil. I was too busy fighting for my life to notice the force field come down. Luckily, the General was, too. He stares at Adam, stunned. The General must

realize his mistake – all the Mogs know the voice command to bring down the force field, but one of

them wasn’t fighting on his side.

The General gropes at the wound on his chest and for a moment I think he’s going to keep coming.

But then he staggers, reaching out to grasp at Adam, almost as if he wants to hug him. Or maybe

strangle him. It’s hard to tell.

Adam steps aside, a detached look on his face, and allows the General to fall face-first on to the

pavement. Beyond the court, the fighting is over, the Mogadorians all dead. Back in Adam’s front

yard, Sam kneels over a wounded Chimæra. Malcolm stands a few feet off from us, on the sideline,

watching the scene with the General, a look of concern on his face. I pick myself up and stand next to Adam.

‘Adam, are you …?’ My voice is hoarse, throat raw and sore. Adam holds up a hand, cutting me

off.

‘Look,’ he says flatly.

At our feet, the General begins to disintegrate. It doesn’t happen quickly like I’ve seen with the

many vatborn scouts and warriors I’ve killed. The General decomposes slowly, parts of him

flattening out faster than others. In some spots, his flesh melts away but not the bone beneath, leaving a skeletal elbow jutting up from the ground next to a rib cage, all attached to a half-disintegrated

skull.

‘You can see where Setrákus Ra augmented him,’ Adam says, his voice almost clinical as he

explains. ‘Healed wounds, cured diseases, improved his strength and speed. He promised

immortality. But the unnatural parts disintegrate, like the vatborn. The rest, what’s left, that is

trueborn, real flesh.’

‘We don’t have to get into this now,’ I manage to say, still trying to catch my breath. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the information. It’s just that Adam’s dad is lying dead at our feet and he’s giving a lesson in Mogadorian genetics like nothing happened.

‘They’re too far gone to realize it, but this is the fate Setrákus Ra offers my people. Ashes and

spare parts,’ Adam says, staring at his father’s remains. ‘I wonder how much more would be left if

the Great Leader had never poisoned his body and mind.’

Adam lets go of the sword and it thunks heavily to the ground. I put my hand on his shoulder, the

revulsion I felt for him over the last couple of days forgotten. He just saved my life and killed his own father to do it.

‘Adam, it’s okay,’ I start, not really sure what to say in this crazy situation.

‘I hated him,’ he replies, not looking at me. He stares at the burned uniform, piles of ash and

random bones that used to be the General. ‘But he was my father. I wish things could have ended

differently. For all of us.’

I crouch down over the General’s remains and carefully remove the simple black leather sheath

that he wore across his back. It’s a little singed but still holding together. I pick up the sword from where Adam dropped it, sheath it and hold it out to him.

‘I don’t want that,’ Adam says, staring at the sword with a look of disgust.

‘Things can end differently,’ I tell him. ‘Use this in a way that your father never did. Help us win this war and change the fate of both our people.’

Adam hesitates for a moment before accepting the sword from me. He holds the blade in both

hands and stares down at it. After a long moment of contemplation, Adam slings the sheath over his

shoulder. He grunts at the weight but manages to stand up straight.

‘Thank you, John,’ he says quietly. ‘I swear to you, this blade will never again be used against a

Loric.’

Sam walks over to us. ‘You guys all right?’

Adam nods. I touch the skin of my throat, which already feels swollen and puffy from where the

General strangled me.

‘Yeah, I’m good,’ I reply, then look to Adam. ‘Are we done, though? Or are there more coming?’

He shakes his head. ‘I shut down communications right before my – right before the General caught

up with me. There won’t be any reinforcements.’

‘Nice,’ Sam replies, looking out at the empty windows of Ashwood Estates. ‘So we just took over

a Mogadorian base.’

Before I can bask in any sense of accomplishment, I notice a dark look on Adam’s face. He’s no

longer staring down at his father. Instead, his eyes are turned towards the horizon, like he’s expecting to see something bad headed our way at any moment.

‘What is it?’ I ask him.

‘There was something else,’ he says slowly, choosing his words carefully. ‘I was only on the

communications network for a few moments, but I picked up some chatter. Troop movements. Mass

relocations of trueborn to the West Virginia fortress. Deployments of warrior groups to population

centers.’

‘Whoa, whoa,’ I say, holding up my hands. ‘What does all that mean?’

‘Invasion,’ Adam replies. ‘Invasion is imminent.’

1 0

Setrákus Ra has some of his minions stick me in a cold room without any windows. No more polite

conversations over nasty dinners, I guess. It’s so small in here that I can stand at the center, stretch out my arms and almost brush the opposing walls with my fingertips. There’s a little dome-shaped

protrusion in the middle of the ceiling. I bet it’s a camera. Against one wall is a small metal desk with a chair that looks like it’s designed for maximum discomfort. On the desk is a copy of The Great

Book of Mogadorian Progress.

I’m supposed to sit here and study my grandfather’s masterwork. Read three sections and spend at

least twenty minutes in deep contemplation of each.

No thanks.

I’m not sure if it’s the same copy I used to hit that Mogadorian lady on my first day here. There are

a lot of these books lying around the Anubis. It’s like the only thing the Mogs read. Anyway, they’ve chained this one to the desk to make sure I don’t turn it into a weapon.

Instead of studying, I lean against the wall farthest from the desk and wait for the Mogs to run out of patience. I try to ignore the itching sensation coming from the Mogadorian charm freshly burned into

my ankle. If they’re watching me – and I’m almost certain that they’re always watching me – I don’t want them to see me looking uncomfortable.

I definitely don’t want them to know how disgusted I am at the idea of being connected to Setrákus

Ra. The Mogs hate the Loric, but they fall over themselves to please their ‘Beloved Leader,’ even

though he used to be one of us. Based on what he told me at dinner, Setrákus Ra turned himself into

some freakish hybrid species made from the powerful Legacies of an Elder and the technological

advancements of the Mogs. Or so he says. It’s hard to figure out what’s fact and fiction with him.

Whatever he is now – Loric, Mog or something in between – Setrákus Ra has spent centuries making

the Mogs view him as a savior. As a god. Where he came from doesn’t matter to them anymore. And

even though I get a few sideways looks from some of the soldiers aboard the Anubis, to most of the crew, I’m on Setrákus Ra’s level.

I’m the granddaughter of a self-proclaimed god. So far, that’s keeping me safe.

As if being blood relatives wasn’t enough, now we’re bonded by his version of a Loric charm. I

remember feeling left out when I discovered all the other Garde were connected in the same way, all

of them once protected by the same force. I wanted to be part of that. Now I’ve got two thick and

jagged bands of scar tissue around my ankle.

Be careful what you wish for, Ella.

I’m zoning out, trying to think up a way to test what the charm does without hurting myself, when a

noise starts playing in the room. It sounds almost exactly like a smoke alarm. At first it’s like a

ringing in my ears, but seconds later it’s amplified enough that it drowns out my thoughts. I cover my ears, but the sound only gets louder. It’s coming through the walls from every direction at once.

‘Turn it off!’ I yell to the Mogs I’m sure are watching me. In response, the volume increases. My

head feels like it might split open.

I stumble away from the wall and the volume immediately lowers from a deafening shriek to a

piercing whistle. When I take another step towards the Great Book, the volume drops another

fraction. I get the hint. When I finally open up the book, the noise drops to an annoying buzz.

So that’s how Setrákus Ra intends to ‘educate’ me – by making it so the only peace I can find is

literally in the pages of his Mogadorian encyclopedia.

Maybe I should try to make the most of this. There might be some information I can use against him

in Setrákus Ra’s painfully boring book. It can’t hurt to skim a little. There’s no way I’ll ever believe any of the lies on these pages.

The ringing cuts off entirely when I start to read the first page. Even though I resent it, I can’t help but let out a little sigh of relief.

There is no greater achievement for a species than the shouldering of one’s own genetic destiny. It is for that reason that the Mogadorian race must be considered the most elevated of all life throughout the universe.

Ugh. I can’t believe this thing goes on for like five hundred pages, or that it’s become required

reading for an entire species. I’m not going to find anything useful in here.

As soon as my eyes drift away from the page, the heinous buzzing resumes, more intense than

before. I grit my teeth and look back at the book, skimming over a couple more sentences until

something occurs to me.

I grab the top of the first thirty pages or so and tear them out of the bindings. The piercing noise in my ears reaches siren level, my eyes watering, but I force myself to go on. I hold up the pages so that whichever Mogadorian is watching can see, and then I tear them down the middle. Then I tear them

into fourths, smaller and smaller, until I’ve got two handfuls of Great Book confetti to toss into the air.

‘How am I supposed to read it now?’ I shout.

The wailing goes on for another couple of minutes. It gets to the point where my neck and back start

to ache from the way my shoulders are bunched up, like they’re trying to cover my ears. I continue

tearing more pages out of the book. I can’t even hear the paper ripping.

And then, all of a sudden, the noise stops. The bones in my face, my teeth – everything hurts. But

I’ve beaten them, and the silence in that tiny, uncomfortable room is the best I’ve ever experienced.

My reward is a couple of hours of alone time. Not that I can even really tell how much time is

passing. I sit on the edge of the uncomfortable chair, rest my head on the desk and try to nap. My

thoughts sound louder in my head than they should, and the ringing in my ears won’t let me sleep.

That, and the feeling that I’m being watched. When I open my eyes, it feels like the room has actually gotten smaller. I know it’s just my imagination, but I’m starting to freak out a little.

My ankle is itching like crazy. I pull up the hem of my dark Mogadorian gown – a fresh one, not the

one Setrákus Ra burned – and stare at the raw flesh on my leg. I’m failing at my goal of giving nothing away, but I can’t help myself. I reach down and massage my ankle, letting out a deep sigh as I do. I

press my palm against the brand and wish that the scar will be gone when I lift my hand. Of course

it’s still there, but at least the clammy sweat on my palm actually feels sort of good against the seared flesh.

Something occurs to me then. What if I use my Aeternus to return to a younger age? Would the skin

on my ankle heal?

I decide to try it. I close my eyes and picture myself as I was two years ago. The feeling of getting

smaller is like letting out a held breath. At least this time when I open my eyes the room seems to

have gotten bigger.

I look down at myself. I’ve shrunk down a few inches, made myself skinnier, the muscles I’d

started developing over the last few months smoothed away. And yet, the jagged Mogadorian symbol

on my leg remains, pink and achy as ever.

‘Aeternus. We have that in common.’

It’s Setrákus Ra. He stands in the now open doorway of my little study room. Still in that

infuriatingly plastic human form. He observes me with a casual smile, leaning against the door, his

arms folded across his chest. ‘It’s useless,’ I reply bitterly, covering up my ankle. I close my eyes and ease back into my true age. ‘What I get for being related to you. The dumbest Legacy of all.’

‘You won’t feel that way when you’re my age,’ Setrákus says, ignoring my insult. ‘You will be

young and beautiful forever, if you wish. It will be an inspiration to your subjects to see their leader radiant and ageless.’

‘I don’t have any subjects.’

‘Not yet. But soon.’

I know exactly who Setrákus Ra means for me to lord over, but I refuse to acknowledge it. I regret

using my Aeternus. Now he knows something else about me, another way for him to try finding

common ground with me, like we’re the same.

‘Is the charm bothering you?’ he asks gently.

‘It’s fine,’ I reply quickly. ‘It’s like it’s not even there.’

‘Hmm. The irritation should pass in a day or so.’ He pauses, his hand on his chin in reflection. ‘I

know it hurts now, Ella. But in time you will come to appreciate the lessons you are learning. You

will thank me for my benevolence.’

I frown at him, sure that he’s going to ramble no matter what I say. So I don’t say anything at all.

I glare up at him. ‘So what? You’re, like, protecting me with this thing? Is that the point?’

‘I would see no harm come to you, child,’ Setrákus Ra replies.

‘Does this charm work like the one the Garde had?’ I take a step towards him and the doorway. ‘If

I run out of here and one of your minions tries to stop me, will anything he does to hurt me be

reflected back at him?’

‘No. Our charm does not work like that,’ Setrákus Ra answers patiently. ‘And I would stop you, granddaughter. Not one of my minions.’

I take another step towards him, wondering if he’ll back away. He doesn’t. ‘If I get too close, will

the charm break?’

Setrákus Ra doesn’t move. ‘Just as each charm works differently, so does each one have a unique

weakness. If only I’d discovered that bringing the Garde together would have broken the Elders’

craven charm sooner, I would have already obliterated the Garde.’ He touches the three glowing

Loric pendants dangling from around his neck. ‘Although, I must admit, I have enjoyed the hunt.’

I try my best to sound casual and sincere. ‘Shouldn’t I know what that weakness is? I don’t want to

accidentally go breaking our connection, Grandfather.’

Setrákus Ra actually grins at me. I’m beginning to realize that he appreciates it when I’m

duplicitous. Then, his eyes drift towards the shredded pages of his book and his grin falters.

‘Perhaps soon, when you are ready, when you trust the purity of my motives,’ he replies, then

abruptly changes the subject. ‘Tell me, granddaughter, besides the Aeternus, what other Legacies have

you developed?’

‘Only whatever I used to hurt you at Dulce Base,’ I lie, figuring it’s a good idea to keep my

telepathy a secret. I’ve tried using it to reach out to the Garde, but the distance from the Anubis to Earth must be too great. Once we land, I’ll try again. Until then, the less Setrákus Ra knows about me, the better. ‘And I can’t control that one. I don’t even know what it is.’

‘I was hardly hurt,’ Setrákus Ra scoffs. ‘Your other Legacies will develop soon, dear. In the

meantime, would you like me to show you the extent of your power?’

‘Yes,’ I reply, almost surprised at my own eagerness. I tell myself that it’s smart to learn how to

use my Legacies, even if my teacher is the biggest monster in the universe.

In response, Setrákus Ra smiles. Almost like he thinks he’s gotten through to me. He hasn’t, but let

him go on thinking that I’m becoming an eager pupil. He waves his hand at the mess I’ve made of his

book.

‘First, clean this up,’ he commands. ‘I will see you have a chance to practise your Legacies once

your betrothed arrives.’

My what?

11

Sunset in the everglades would be pretty if not for the massive Mogadorian warship blotting out the

horizon. Whatever alien metal the warship is made from, it reflects nothing, the pink and orange light of the dying day simply absorbed into the hull. The behemoth doesn’t land – there’s not enough

cleared space in the swampland for it to set down, unless it wants to crush the smaller Mogadorian

ships parked on the narrow runway below. Instead, the warship hovers, metal gangways unfurling

from the ship’s underside and connecting to the ground. Mogadorians scurry up and down the ramps,

loading equipment into the ship.

‘We should wipe them out,’ Marina says matter-of-factly.

Nine blinks at her. ‘Are you serious? I count at least a hundred Mogs and the biggest goddamn ship

I’ve ever seen.’

‘So what?’ Marina counters. ‘Don’t you love to fight?’

‘Fights I can win, yeah,’ Nine replies.

‘And if you can’t win, you just run your mouth, right?’

‘Enough,’ I hiss before Nine can say anything more. I don’t know how long Marina’s going to hold

this grudge against Nine or what it’ll take to ease the tension, but now is definitely not the time to deal with it. ‘Bickering isn’t getting us anywhere.’

We’re on our stomachs in the mud, shielded from the busy Mogadorians by overgrown tallgrass,

right at the edge of where the swamp begins to encroach on the manmade clearing. There are two

buildings in front of us; one is a glass-and-steel one-storey that looks almost like a greenhouse, and the other is an aircraft hangar with a narrow landing strip, perfect for small propeller planes or the saucer-shaped Mogadorian crafts, nowhere near large enough for the warship floating above us. Just

like Dale told us before he fled, the whole place looks like it was abandoned until recently. The

swamp is beginning to creep back in and crack the asphalt, the metal struts of the greenhouse are

rusted over, and the NASA logo has almost completely faded from the side of the hangar. Of course,

these conditions don’t appear to have deterred the Mogs from setting up a small base here.

But now, it looks like they’re packing up.

‘Marina, do you sense anything?’ I ask. At this point, we’ve got nothing else to go on except this

intuition of hers. It’s gotten us this far – right into a swarming nest of Mogadorians. Might as well let it take us a little further.

‘He’s here,’ she says. ‘I don’t know how I know, but he’s here.’

‘Then we’re going in,’ I say. ‘But we’re doing it the smart way.’

I reach out and grab both of their hands, turning the three of us invisible. If a Mogadorian was to

look over here now, we’d be nothing more than three strange indentations in the mud. As a group, we

stand up, confident that the horde of Mogs won’t be able to see us.

‘Marina, you lead the way,’ I whisper.

As we step out of the swamp, Nine trips over a root and nearly topples over, our chain almost

breaking. That would’ve been the shortest covert mission in history. I squeeze his hand hard.

‘Sorry,’ he says quietly. ‘It’s just weird not being able to see my legs.’

‘That can’t happen again,’ I warn him.

‘I’m reconsidering that whole rushing-in-and-killing-them-all thing,’ Nine replies. ‘Being sneaky

isn’t exactly my strong suit.’

Marina makes an annoyed noise, so I squeeze her hand hard, too.

‘We need to move as a unit,’ I say through gritted teeth, hoping we can regain some of that

instinctual teamwork we managed during the earlier fight with Mog scouts. ‘Take it slow, be quiet

and don’t bump into anything.’

With that, we start slowly forward. I’m not too worried about the noise our footfalls make on the

uneven pavement; the Mogadorians are busy loading heavy gear from the greenhouse to the warship,

the wheels on their dollies squeaking and grinding. I’m used to moving around while invisible,

trusting my instincts, but I know that it can be hard for the others. We approach slowly, grasping on to each other, keeping as quiet as possible.

Marina takes us towards the greenhouse first. The Mogs are concentrated around that area,

wheeling out carts loaded up with bizarre, mad scientist – looking devices. I watch as one Mog

pushes a wheeled shelving unit cluttered with potted plants – flowers, patches of grass, saplings – all of them things found on Earth, and yet all of them veined with a strange gray fluid. They look droopy, on the verge of dying, and I wonder what kind of experiments the Mogs were running on them.

There’s a tall Mogadorian at the base of the ramp leading to the warship. His uniform is different

from the usual warrior garb – those Mogs are at least sort of trying to fit in on Earth, even if they’re dressed like gothic weirdos. This guy is definitely some kind of military officer, his attire formal and severe, all black, covered in shining medals and studded epaulets. The tattoos across his scalp are

much more elaborate than any I’ve seen. He holds a computer tablet in his hands, checking items off

with a swipe of his finger as the Mogs load them on to the ship. He barks the occasional order at the

others in harsh Mogadorian.

Marina tries to move us closer to the greenhouse, but I tighten my grip and plant my feet. Nine

bumps into my back, letting out an annoyed grunt that we’re stopped. The path in front of us is like a Mogadorian obstacle course – they’re everywhere. Any closer and we run the risk of a stray Mog

walking right into us. If Eight is in that greenhouse with their experiments and cargo, our only chance to get him would be a full-on assault. I’m not ready to go down that road yet. Sensing my reluctance,

Marina’s hand grows a little colder in mine.

‘Not yet,’ I hiss at her, my words barely louder than a soft breath. ‘We check the hangar first.’

We make it about ten more steps before an animal groan stops us in our tracks. From the

greenhouse, a team of Mogs wheel out a large cage. Inside is a creature that might have been a cow at

one point but has since been transformed into something seriously nasty. The animal’s eyes are wet

and jaundiced, painful-looking horns jut out of its skull, and its udder is immensely swollen and

covered in the same grayish veins I noticed on the plants. The creature looks lethargic and depressed, barely alive. Whatever experiments the Mogs were running down here are truly disgusting and, like

Nine, I’m starting to reconsider Marina’s idea of just wiping out all these bastards, massive warship

or no massive warship.

‘Hold up,’ Nine whispers in my ear. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

Exposed as we are, I’m not sure it’s a great time for one of Nine’s crazy ideas. But, a moment after

he stops us, the cow-beast in the cage groans again and lumbers awkwardly to its feet. It staggers to

the side and pushes all its weight against one side of the cage, causing the Mogs pushing it to yell for assistance as the whole thing threatens to topple. Then, the monster mule-kicks one of its huge cloven hooves at the bars, nearly smashing the face of a Mog.

‘I asked it to give us a distraction,’ Nine whispers, more Mogs closing in on the cage to try

sedating their experiment. ‘Poor thing was happy to help.’

Nine’s animal telepathy works like a charm. As if it’s at last discovered a purpose in life, the cow

thrashes about, bulling towards the sides of its cage, even catching one Mog in the shoulder with its

horn. The chaos creates an opening for us to slip through the mass in front of the greenhouse and make our way towards the hangar.

We all stop at the sound of a Mog blaster being fired. Turning around, I see the officer holstering

his blaster, a smoking hole in the side of the cow’s head. It slumps in the cage, unmoving. He yells

some orders, and the Mogadorians begin loading the corpse on to the warship.

As I tense up, Nine whispers to me, ‘Better this way. It was in a ton of pain.’

With some distance between us and the highest concentration of Mogs, I feel comfortable enough to

whisper back. ‘What were they doing to it?’

Nine pauses before answering. ‘I couldn’t, like, have a heart-to-heart with the thing. But I think they were trying to figure out how they could make it more efficient. They’re, uh, experimenting with the

ecology.’

‘Demented,’ Marina mutters.

We pick up some speed as we move towards the hangar. On our right, at the edge of the runway,

are a trio of the smaller, saucer-shaped Mogadorian ships. A maintenance crew of five Mogadorians

huddles around one of them, pulling circuit boards out of the ship’s underbelly and generally looking

befuddled. I guess Mogadorians can have technical difficulties, too. Other than those guys, the coast is clear.

The huge, sheet-metal doors of the hangar, wide enough for a small plane to pass in and out, are

only open a few feet, just enough to let a person pass through. There are lights on inside the hangar, but all I can see through the gap is empty space.

Marina slows down as we reach the doors and then stops fully to peek inside. While she’s doing

that, I look over my shoulder. Nothing’s changed – the Mogs are still loading materials on to the

warship, completely unaware that we just snuck through their ranks.

‘Anything?’ Nine whispers, and I can sense him craning his neck, trying to see through the crack in

the hangar doors. Before I can answer, I hear Marina’s breath catch in her throat. My hand stings, shot through with cold, like I’m suddenly clutching a block of ice.

‘Shit, Marina!’ I hiss, but she’s not listening. Instead, she’s lunging through the doors. Considering my hand is numb, it takes all my willpower to keep hold of her. I tug Nine along behind me and his

shoulder strikes the steel door, his grunt covered by the echoing metallic rattling.

The hangar is almost completely empty, the Mogadorians having already cleared all their gear out.

Large floodlights shine down from the rafters, illuminating the metal table and chair in the center of the room. They’re the only things left in the hangar, and the lights from above cast long shadows

across the concrete floor.

Eight’s body is on the table.

He is wrapped in a black body bag, unzipped to the waist. He’s shirtless, the quarter-sized wound

where Five stabbed him through the heart plainly visible on his chest. His brown skin is ashen, but

Eight still looks very much like himself, like at any moment he’ll teleport off the table and play some annoying joke on me. There are black electrodes with short, fragile-looking antennae attached to

Eight’s temples and a few more running down his sternum. The electrodes generate some kind of field

that’s barely visible to the eye, like a low and steady current of electricity is passing over Eight’s body. I think it’s something the Mogs attached to Eight to keep his body intact for their experiments. In addition to the electrodes, someone has cleaned the blood off him and, surprisingly, they’ve left his

Loric pendant around his neck, the jewel shimmering dully against his chest. It kills me to see him like this, but Eight looks almost peaceful.

Of course, Eight isn’t the reason Marina shoved through the hangar doors, or the reason that she’s

currently giving my hand a wicked case of frostbite.

Seated next to Eight, head in his hands, is Five.

Five sits crouched forward, almost like he wishes he could fold in on himself. There’s a thick pad

of gauze over the eye Marina stabbed back in the swamp, a very faint pink stain beginning to soak

through. His good eye is red-rimmed; it looks as if he’s been crying or hasn’t been sleeping – or both.

Five’s head is freshly shaven since we last saw him, and I wonder how far off he is from getting a set of his own Mogadorian tattoos. He’s dressed in Mogadorian formal attire similar to the officer

directing traffic at the warship. However, his uniform is severely wrinkled, the buttons around the

neck undone, everything looking a little too tight.

There’s no way the one-eyed traitor didn’t hear us enter. Thanks to Marina, we made a ton of noise

coming through the door, and the emptiness of the hangar amplifies everything to the point where I’m

suddenly extremely conscious of my breathing. Even worse, I can hear a low growl coming from

Marina, like she’s fighting back an intense scream, ready to throw herself at Five. Behind me, I can

sense Nine basically holding his breath.

Five’s good eye flicks briefly in our direction. He definitely heard us, but he can’t see us. Maybe

there’s hope he’ll just write it off as noise from the Mogs outside. I want another go at the renegade Garde, too – one where he doesn’t sucker punch me into unconsciousness before the fight even starts

– but we have to pick our battles. Facing off against Five in an enclosed space with a Mogadorian

warship at our back is definitely not the battle we want. We’ll need to figure out another way to

recover Eight’s body.

I pull at Marina’s arm, the icy pinpricks in my hand now replaced by full-on numbness, trying to

communicate to her just how terrible an idea charging in would be. She tugs against me for a moment,

but then I start to feel her calm down, which I can tell because my hand starts to warm up.

But as Marina slowly and quietly releases a deep breath, I see it mist in front of her, the air around her too cold. A cloud of breath from an invisible girl, floating in the bright lights of the hangar.

Five sees it, his eye narrowing. He stands up from his chair and looks right at the spot where we’re

standing.

‘I didn’t mean to do it,’ he says.

1 2

I clench Marina’s and Nine’s hands, hoping that will be enough to keep them from saying anything

back to Five and totally giving away our position. I’m not ready to lose our one advantage –

invisibility – just yet. Thankfully, they both manage to control themselves, Five’s words hanging out

there unanswered.

‘I know you won’t believe me,’ Five continues. ‘But no one was supposed to get killed.’

Five’s beseeching gaze is still aimed right at us, so slowly, quietly, I begin leading the others to the side. We move just inches at a time, careful of each other, not making any noise. Gradually, we slip

out from under Five’s gaze, flanking him. Now, he’s staring at truly empty space, stupidly waiting for a response.

With a grunt, Five turns away. It’s like he was never talking to us at all. Instead, he starts speaking directly to Eight’s body.

‘You shouldn’t have done what you did, diving in front of Nine,’ Five lectures, his voice almost

wistful. ‘It was heroic, I guess. I kinda admire you for it. But it wasn’t worth it. The Mogadorians are going to win anyway, you know? A levelheaded guy like you would’ve learned his place. You

could’ve helped with the rebuilding and unification. Nine, though … he’s too brain-dead to know

when he’s beat. He’s no good to anyone.’

I feel muscles tense in Nine’s arm, but for now he resists the urge to throw himself at Five. That’s

good – he’s learning. Or maybe, like me, he’s stunned this is happening at all, Five just rambling

away like this, pretending we’re not here.

Five puts his hand gently on Eight’s shoulder. The sleeve of his uniform rides up and I notice the

leather sheath strapped to his arm, the one that holds the needle-shaped spring-loaded dagger that he

used to kill our friend.

‘He told me –’ Five’s voice breaks a little as he continues addressing Eight. ‘He told me I’d have a

chance to talk you guys into joining. No one would have to get hurt if you just accepted Mogadorian

Progress. He kept his word before, I mean, I’m living proof, right? When the charm broke, he

could’ve killed me, but he didn’t.’

Five must be talking about Setrákus Ra, about a deal he struck with the Mogadorian leader. He

walks around the table, turning his back on us. Marina takes a step towards him, but I don’t let her go any farther. I don’t know why Five is talking so much, but he has to know we’re here. I’m not sure if

this is a trap, if he’s baiting us, or what is going on. But I want to listen.

‘I didn’t expect you to be so brainwashed,’ Five says, standing over Eight, his hunched back

presenting a perfect target. ‘Thinking about everything in black and white, heroes and villains.’

Five reaches down and lifts Eight’s pendant, squeezing the jewel in his fist. His Legacy – Externa,

he called it, where his skin takes on the quality of whatever he touches – kicks in, Five’s skin briefly flashing the shimmering cobalt of Loralite. After a moment, he lets the pendant go with a sigh, and his flesh returns to normal.

‘But then, maybe I’m the brainwashed one, right? Isn’t that what you guys said to me?’ Five lets

loose a low laugh, then reaches up to carefully adjust the gauze over his destroyed eye. ‘They fill your head with all this shit – the Elders, the Great Book. All these rules about who we’re supposed to be.

But I don’t care about any of it. I’m just trying to survive.’

I feel Nine’s hand sweating in mine; he must be struggling to hold himself back from attacking.

Marina, meanwhile, isn’t radiating the furious cold she was moments ago, probably because the scene

unfolding before us is so misguided and pathetic. If Five’s speech – clearly for our benefit – has

revealed anything, it’s that he’s pretty much lost his mind.

Five brushes a speck of something gently from Eight’s forehead, then shakes his head.

‘Anyway, the point is, I’m sorry, Eight,’ Five says, that know-it-all tone still in his voice but mixed with an undercurrent of sincerity. ‘I know it doesn’t mean anything. I’ll be a coward, a traitor, a

murderer for the rest of my life. That won’t change. But I want you to know that I wish things could’ve turned out differently.’

Behind us, someone clears his throat. All of us were so wrapped up in Five’s unhinged monologue

– Five included – that we didn’t notice the Mogadorian officer enter. He eyes Five warily, his

posture stiff and formal. Looking at him, standing there like a soldier ready to deliver a report, it

occurs to me that this Mogadorian might actually take orders from Five. If that’s the case, he seems

way disgusted by it.

‘We are finished loading the ship,’ the officer says.

The Mog waits for Five to acknowledge him, but Five stays silent for a long, awkward moment. He

stays hunched over Eight’s body, breathing slowly. I tense up and wonder if his strange game is over

and if now he’s thinking about sounding the alarm.

The Mogadorian officer does a bad job of hiding how much Five’s silence perturbs him. ‘One of

the hunting parties hasn’t reported back,’ he continues. ‘And the mechanics are having difficulties

getting one of the scout vessels to work.’

Five sighs. ‘That’s fine,’ he says. ‘We’ll leave them behind.’

‘Yes, those were my orders,’ the officer replies, not so subtly asserting his power. ‘Are you ready

to leave?’

Five turns to the officer, a malicious twinkle in his remaining eye. ‘Yeah. Let’s get out of here.’

Five walks towards the hangar doors, his movements mockingly sluggish. We stand to the side,

watching all this transpire, staying quiet. The officer arches an eyebrow, not stepping out of Five’s

way.

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ the officer asks Five when the two are nearly face-to-face.

Five scratches his head. ‘Huh?’

‘The body,’ the officer says, annoyed. ‘Your instructions are to bring the Loric’s body. And the

pendant.’

‘Oh, that,’ Five replies, and glances back at the metal table where Eight rests. ‘The body’s gone,

Captain. The Garde must have slipped in here and taken it. Only explanation.’

The Mogadorian captain doesn’t know what to say. He makes a show of craning his neck, looking

past Five to where Eight is still very much on the table. Then, he studies Five’s face, his eyes

narrowed impatiently.

‘Is this some kind of game, Loric?’ the captain hisses. ‘Or are you blind in both eyes now? The

Garde is right there.’

Five ignores the insult and shakes his head at the Captain, clicking his tongue.

‘Happened on your watch, too,’ Five says. ‘You let them steal a war asset from right under your

nose. That’s basically treason, my man. You know what the punishment for that is.’

The Mogadorian opens his mouth for another disbelieving protest. He’s cut off by a scrape of

metal, Five’s blade popping out from beneath his sleeve. Without hesitation, he drives the point into

the underside of the officer’s jaw and straight up into his brain. Before he starts to disintegrate,

there’s a look of total surprise on the Mog’s face.

Five doesn’t move as the Mog turns to ash. He disintegrates slower than the many other dying Mogs

I’ve seen, and when it’s finished there are jagged bones poking out of his crumpled uniform. Five

pushes his blade back into the mechanism on his forearm and kicks the officer’s remains away from

the doors. Then, he carefully brushes himself off and straightens his coat.

From where we’re standing, Five is in profile, and the eye that’s visible is the one covered by the

gauze bandage. Because of that, it’s not easy to get a read on his expression.

‘Good luck,’ Five says, then steps through the hangar doors, easing them closed behind him.

No one says anything or even moves for about a minute, all of us a little worried that a squadron of

Mogs will be storming in here at any second. Finally, Nine shakes off my grip, popping back into the

visible world.

‘Okay. What the holy hell was that about?’ he exclaims. ‘Is that kid trying to buddy up now or is he just totally loony tunes?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I reply. ‘We’ve got Eight, that’s what’s important. We can deal with Five

another time.’

‘He’s alone and lost,’ Marina says softly, letting go of my hand as well. She notices me rubbing

some warmth back into it, the chilled feeling still lingering, and frowns. ‘Sorry, Six. He brought it out of me.’

I wave it off, not wanting to get into Marina’s Legacy control at the moment. I tiptoe to the hangar

doors and edge them open just a crack. I’m just in time to see Five disappearing up the ramp and on to the warship, the last one aboard. Once he’s inside, the ramp curls back into the warship’s underbelly

and the huge ship begins to rise up, its engines purring with a softness that seems almost impossible

for a vessel that size. Once it reaches a certain height, the warship starts to flicker and I begin having trouble distinguishing its outline from the purple clouds. Hulking, virtually silent, and equipped with some kind of cloaking device – how are we supposed to fight something like that?

‘You sound like you feel sorry for him,’ Nine says to Marina.

‘I don’t,’ she snaps at Nine, but I can hear some doubt creeping into Marina’s voice, that tough

exterior she’s been putting on showing some faults. ‘I … did you see his eye?’

‘I saw a hole in his head covered by a Band-Aid,’ Nine replies. ‘Dude has that and more coming to

him.’

‘Do you think Eight would want that?’ I ask, honestly wondering. ‘He died trying to keep us from

killing each other.’

The warship risen out of sight, I turn around to face the others. Nine chews his lip and stares at the floor, considering what I just said. Marina has taken a seat in Five’s former chair at Eight’s side. She tentatively touches the electrodes and waves her fingers through the energy field. When nothing

happens, Marina gently brushes her fingers through his curly hair. Her eyes shine with fresh tears, but she holds them back.

‘I knew I’d find you,’ she whispers. ‘I’m sorry I ever left you.’

I walk over to join Marina at the table, gazing down at Eight. Maybe it’s my imagination, but it

seems like he has the faintest smile on his lips.

‘I wish I’d known you better,’ I say to Eight, reaching out to place my hand lightly on his shoulder.

‘I wish our lives had been different.’

Nine hesitates but eventually joins us at the table, standing next to Marina. At first, he avoids

looking directly at Eight’s body, his lips pursed, the muscles in his neck twitching like he’s trying to lift something heavy. He’s ashamed, I realize. It seems to take a great effort on his part, but after a moment Nine manages to look at Eight. Immediately, he reaches out to zip up the body bag a little

more, enough so that Eight’s wound is hidden from view.

‘Oh man,’ he says quietly. ‘I’m sorry for …’ Nine shakes his head, running a hand through his hair.

‘I mean, thank you for saving my life. Five was right, uh, you probably shouldn’t have. If I’d just shut my mouth you’d probably still be … shit, I’m sorry, Eight. I’m so sorry.’

Nine takes a shuddering breath, obviously holding back tears. Marina puts her hand softly on his

back and leans against him.

‘He would forgive you,’ she says softly, adding, ‘I forgive you.’

Nine puts his arm around Marina and pulls her into a hug that’s tight enough to make her squeak. He

buries his face in her hair, hiding his tears. My mind is and has always been racing – wondering about John, Sam and the others, worrying about how we’re going to find our way back to them, if they’re

even still alive and uncaptured – but seeing Marina and Nine like this, coming together, starting to

heal, it gives me hope. We’re a strong people. We can get through anything.

‘We need to get moving,’ I say gently, reluctant to end this moment but knowing that I have to.

Nine finally releases Marina, and I carefully zip up Eight’s body bag. Nine reaches down and, with

an equal amount of care, lifts Eight’s body into his arms.

Just as we turn towards the hangar doors, they rumble open.

The group of Mogadorians who were working on the scout ship. I forgot all about them. They stand

in the doorway, caught in the middle of pushing their broken ship into the hangar. They look about as

surprised to see us as we are to see them.

Before we can do anything, a mechanical grinding emanates from the ship. The front – or at least

the side of the saucer aimed directly at us – opens up, a blaster turret clanking into view and whirring to life with an electric sizzle. There must be a Mog inside.

‘Get down!’ Nine shouts.

There’s no cover in this empty hangar except the metal table, and it’s way too late to go invisible.

Marina flips over the table, Nine crouches with Eight’s body still in his arms, and I dive to the side, hoping that we’re fast enough as the turret opens fire.

1 3

‘Does the name Grahish Sharma mean anything to you?’ Sarah asks.

I think for a moment, trying to pluck the name out of my memory. ‘Sounds kind of familiar. Why?’

I’m standing in the yard outside Adam’s old house, Sarah’s voice arriving long-distance over the

disposable cell phone. Beyond the empty basketball courts, the sun is just beginning to dip below the

horizon. A large bird cuts across the orange sky and I wonder if it’s one of ours – we’ve set the

Chimærae up as sentries all around the grounds of Ashwood Estates with orders to find us if any

intruders should appear. So far, it’s been quiet. If I didn’t know better, it’d seem like I was hanging out in a peculiarly quiet suburb, one where everyone’s still at work.

‘He’s from India,’ Sarah explains. ‘He’s the commander of something called the Vishnu Nationalist

Eight.’

The name clicks at the mention of Eight and I snap my fingers. ‘Oh, right. That’s the army guy who

was protecting Eight in the Himalayas.’

‘Hmm,’ Sarah says. ‘So his story checks out.’

I pace across the lawn, picturing Sarah with her blond hair pulled up in a studious bun, pens and

pencils stuck through it, poring over some documents in the new offices of They Walk Among Us.

Never mind that those offices are located in an abandoned ranch fifty miles outside of Huntsville,

Alabama. Never mind that Sarah was escorted there by her ex-boyfriend Mark, who’s actually turned

out to be surprisingly capable at this cloak-and-dagger stuff. It’s the image of Sarah that I focus on.

‘What story is that?’

‘Well, it’s a lot of rumor and internet weirdness that we’re trying to cut through. But this Sharma

guy is claiming to have shot down an alien spacecraft and captured its crew.’

‘Some of the Mogs who were after Eight, probably,’ I reply.

‘Right. Took them alive and everything. Even though it happened in India, it should still be national

news, but it’s not. Someone’s keeping a lid on it. Mark’s trying to make contact with Sharma. He

wants to run the story on They Walk Among Us, hopefully expose the Mogs to the general public.’

‘Huh,’ I say, rubbing the back of my neck and thinking out loud. ‘Might help rally some support if

things get bad.’

‘How bad are things going to get, John?’

I swallow hard. Even though I used my healing Legacy shortly after battle, I can still feel the

General’s fingers clenched around my throat.

‘I don’t know,’ I say, not sure why I’m hiding Adam’s theory on imminent invasion from Sarah. I

guess maybe I’m still trying to protect her. I quickly change the subject. ‘How’s Mark doing,

anyway?’

‘He’s doing fine,’ Sarah replies. ‘He’s changed a lot.’

‘How so?’

Sarah hesitates. ‘I … it’s hard to explain.’

I don’t dwell for very long on the present state of Mark James. It isn’t what I want to talk about.

Really, after nearly dying this afternoon, all I want is to hear Sarah’s voice.

‘I miss you,’ I say.

‘I miss you, too,’ Sarah replies. ‘After a long day of fighting alien invaders and unraveling

international conspiracies, I wish we could just snuggle up on that old couch in my basement and

watch a movie.’

That makes me laugh, the feeling bittersweet as I picture the kind of normal life Sarah and I might

be leading if we weren’t trying to save the world.

‘Soon,’ I tell her, trying to sound confident.

‘I hope so,’ she replies.

I sense movement behind me and turn around to find Sam standing on the ruined porch of Adam’s

house. He motions for me to come inside.

‘Sarah, I’ve gotta go,’ I say, feeling reluctant to hang up the phone. We’ve been checking in with

each other every eight hours like we planned, and I feel a sense of relief every time I hear her voice.

Every time I disconnect, I start thinking about the next time … the time when she won’t call. ‘Be

careful, okay? Things might be getting pretty heavy soon.’

‘Things aren’t already heavy?’ she asks. ‘You be careful, too. I love you.’

I say good-bye to Sarah and tilt my head at Sam. He looks almost excited, like he’s gotten some

good news in the last five minutes.

‘What’s up?’

‘Come down,’ he says. ‘We figured something out.’

I climb on to what’s left of the porch after this afternoon’s skirmish and follow Sam through the

half-sunken doorway into the living room. The interior of the house matches the exterior – the perfect idea of human suburbia – except the furniture looks like it was arranged exactly as seen on the pages

of a catalogue. There’s absolutely no sense of it being lived in. I try to imagine what it was like for Adam growing up here, try to picture him bashing little Piken action figures together on the floor, and just can’t do it.

At the back of the living room is a massive metal door secured by a series of locks operated by a

keypad covered in Mogadorian symbols. The door is the one thing that breaks the suburban illusion

and it’s actually kind of surprising to me that the Mogs didn’t try hiding it behind a bookcase or

something. I guess they never thought their enemies would make it this far. The door is already open,

unlocked by Adam earlier, and it’s through there that Sam and I descend into the tunnels beneath

Ashwood Estates.

We walk down a long metal staircase, the phony homeliness above immediately replaced by sterile

stainless steel and buzzing halogen lights. The labyrinthine network of tunnels beneath Ashwood is

much more in keeping with my idea of the Mogadorians – functional and cold. It’s not quite as

sprawling down here as the hollowed-out mountain in West Virginia, but it definitely puts Dulce Base

to shame. I wonder how long it took them to carve all this out, the Mogs tunneling into the Earth

during those years I was on the run with Henri, expanding their reach without us even realizing it.

There’s a jagged and long crack in the wall that starts about halfway down the steps and runs ahead

deeper into the tunnels. Sam reaches out to drag his hand along it, coating his fingers with concrete

dust.

‘We’re sure this place isn’t going to collapse, right?’

‘Adam doesn’t think so,’ Sam replies, clapping his hands clean, the noise echoing. ‘It creeps me

out down here, though. Seriously claustrophobic.’

‘Don’t worry. We won’t be staying long.’

We pass other cracks as we navigate the twisting hallways, places where the foundation shifted,

broken sections of concrete grinding against each other. The damage was caused the last time Adam

was here, when he unleashed his earthquake Legacy to rescue Malcolm. There are some hallways

where the ceilings have outright collapsed.

Down the hall, we pass by a large, well-lit room that looks like it might have been a laboratory at

one point, lots of nozzles and levers and worktables, but no equipment. Everything must have gotten

destroyed in Adam’s attack, and the Mog salvage team never got the chance to replace it. Next to the

lab, we pass a row of oppressive eight-by-eight rooms with thick doors made from bulletproof glass.

Cells. All of them currently unoccupied.

‘The archives are up here,’ Sam tells me. ‘Dad’s been in there nonstop. The Mogs recorded

everything.’

We stop by a small room – almost like an office – with a huge bank of monitors. Malcolm sits

behind the room’s single computer terminal, bleary-eyed from watching who knows how many hours

of footage. On-screen, a Mogadorian scout speaks directly into the camera.

‘It has been three days since we leaked rumors of a Loric presence in Buenos Aires,’ the scout

reports. ‘There has yet to be any sign of Garde, but surveillance continues –’

Malcolm pauses the video when he notices us, rubbing his eyes.

‘Find anything useful?’ I ask.

Malcolm shakes his head and pulls up a list of files on the computer. He brushes a finger down the

touch screen, and the files begin an endless scroll. There are thousands of them, and all their titles are in Mogadorian.

‘From what I can gather, this is almost five years’ worth of Mogadorian intelligence,’ Malcolm

explains. ‘I’d need an entire team to go through it all. Even with Adam translating these titles, which are basically just dates and times, it’s hard to figure out where to begin.’

‘Maybe we can hire some interns,’ Sam suggests, then tugs my arm. ‘Come on, we gotta see Adam.’

‘Do what you can,’ I tell Malcolm before Sam drags me away. ‘Even the smallest bit of

information might help.’

A few more steps down the hall and we reach the room Adam described as the control center. The

room is pretty much undamaged, so it’s where we set up shop. The walls are covered in monitors,

security-camera footage from Ashwood streaming over some, but also video feeds from other places,

including one hacked security camera outside the barricaded John Hancock Center. Beneath the

monitors are a row of computers, not exactly user-friendly since all the keys are in Mogadorian.

I put my hands on my hips and survey this place, watching the camera feeds that not too long ago

would’ve been trained on me. It feels strange to be on the other side. Like Sam, this place makes me

uneasy.

‘Are we safe here?’ I ask. ‘All these cameras … there aren’t any pointed back at us?’

‘I’ve disabled them,’ Adam replies. He’s in a swivel chair at one of the computers, typing out a

string of commands. He turns around to face me. ‘Using the General’s authorization, I’ve sent a code

back to the Mogadorian command in West Virginia reporting that the salvage team uncovered a toxic

chemical leak. It’ll take some time to clean up. They’ll assume the failed cameras have something to

do with the salvage team’s work.’

‘How much time does that buy us?’

‘A couple of days? A week?’ Adam replies. ‘They’ll become suspicious when the General doesn’t

check in, but we should slip through the cracks for a while.’

‘What do we look for in the meantime?’

‘Your friends,’ Adam replies. ‘In fact, I believe I’ve already found them.’

‘Yeah, Florida,’ I say. ‘We already knew that.’

‘No, he found them. Like, exactly,’ Sam replies, grinning at me. ‘That’s why I came to get you.

Check this out.’

Sam points at one of the screens, this one displaying a map of the United States. The map is

covered in triangles of various sizes. There’s a small triangle over our location along with a few

similar-sized indicators scattered throughout the country. There are bigger triangles glowing on top of population centers. New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Houston – all these cities are marked on the

map. The biggest triangle of all is to the west of us, right around where the Mogs’ mountain base is

hidden in West Virginia.

‘This is a, uh …’ Sam looks over at Adam. ‘What’d you call this thing?’

‘Tactical asset overview,’ Adam replies. ‘It shows where my people have ongoing operations.’

‘They’re massing in the major cities,’ I say, studying the map.

‘Yeah,’ Adam replies, grimly. ‘In preparation for the invasion.’

‘Let’s not focus on the i-word right now, okay?’ Sam says. ‘Look at this.’

Sam has plugged the tablet displaying the location of the other Garde into one of the computers. He

hands it to me and my eyes immediately shoot to Florida. My heart skips a beat; there’s only one

blinking dot on the map. It takes me a moment to realize that the four dots symbolizing each of the

remaining Garde have actually gotten so close together that they perfectly overlap.

‘They’re almost on top of each other,’ I say. ‘All four of them.’

‘Yep,’ Sam replies, taking back the tablet. ‘And look at this.’

He holds the tablet up next to the map of Mogadorian activity. The four dots perfectly line up with

one of the smaller orange triangles in Florida.

‘The Mogs have them,’ I say, gritting my teeth. ‘Adam, is that a base of some kind?’

‘A research station,’ he replies. ‘The records show there was some genetic experimentation being

done there. It isn’t the kind of place we’d normally keep prisoners, especially not Garde.’

‘Why even take prisoners at this point?’ Sam asks. ‘I mean, I get Setrákus Ra has some weird thing

for Ella. But the others …’

‘They aren’t prisoners,’ I say, hitting Sam on the arm in excitement as this dawns on me. ‘The

others are up to something. They’re on the attack.’

‘I’m working on getting us a visual of the base,’ Adam says, his fingers racing across the keyboard.

‘How’re you going to do that?’ I ask.

I sit down in the swivel chair next to Adam and watch his hands flick across the Mogadorian

keyboard. Whatever he’s doing seems almost like second nature.

‘I’ve locked down a scout ship so they won’t be able to operate it. That was the easy part.

Accessing and isolating its onboard surveillance while still keeping the craft inoperable is proving

trickier.’

‘You’re hacking into a ship?’ Sam asks, leaning over the back of Adam’s chair.

I watch the monitor directly in front of Adam crackle with static. ‘How does that help us?’

‘This control room is a nerve center, John,’ Adam explains, taking a moment away from typing to

gesture around. ‘Information from all the other bases feeds to here. It is just a matter of accessing it.’

‘Accessing it how?’

‘Hunting the Loric for so many years has made my people paranoid to ever miss a potential lead.

Every operation is recorded. There’s surveillance everywhere.’ Adam strikes a key with a triumphant

flair. ‘Even aboard our own ships.’

The monitors above flicker briefly and then display grainy footage of a runway in the middle of a

swamp.

‘If the Garde are nearby, we might be able to see them,’ Adam explains.

‘If they’re not invisible,’ I say, squinting at the monitor.

Beneath the camera, a handful of Mogadorians look frustrated as they yank engine parts from the

scout ship’s hull. They clean these parts, reattach them and, when nothing happens, start taking apart something else.

‘What’re they doing?’ Sam asks.

‘Trying to fix what I’ve done,’ Adam replies excitedly, seeming pleased that he’s outsmarted his

people. ‘They assume engine failure, not automated systems override. It will take them a while to

catch on.’

Another Mogadorian, this one wearing an impressive-looking uniform similar to the General’s,

approaches them. He yells at the mechanics, then walks offscreen in a huff.

‘Does the camera move?’ I ask.

‘Of course.’

Adam hits a button and the camera begins to scan to the side, following the dressed-up

Mogadorian. At first, there isn’t much to see except pavement and, in the distance, some swampland.

However, after a short walk, the dressed-up Mogadorian disappears into an airplane hangar.

‘Do you think they’re in there?’ I ask.

‘This camera should be equipped with heat vision, if I can figure out how to access it,’ Adam

replies, tentatively tapping a few of the keys in front of him.

Before Adam can figure it out, Five walks through the hangar doors. Even though I’d guessed he

was a traitor from Ella’s vision, I’d been holding on to a foolish hope that it wasn’t true. Or, dark as it might seem, that Five was the one killed in battle. But there he is, in a rumpled Mogadorian

uniform, and with a bandage covering his right eye.

I can hear Sam suck in a breath; he’s stunned. The only part of my visions that I hadn’t told anyone

about was seeing Five, not wanting to smear his name if I was wrong.

‘He’s …’ Sam shakes his head. ‘That son of a bitch traitor. It must’ve been him who told the Mogs

about Chicago.’

‘One of your own,’ Adam says quietly. ‘That is unexpected.’

I have to look away from Five’s image before my blood boils. ‘You didn’t know about this?’ I ask

Adam through clenched teeth.

‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I would’ve told you. Setrákus Ra himself must have been keeping

him a secret.’

I force myself to look back at the screen. I keep calm, studying my new enemy. His slumped

shoulders, his freshly shaved head, the dark look in his remaining eye. What could have brought one

of our own to such a terrible place?

‘I knew there was something off about that jerk,’ Sam says, pacing now. ‘John, man, what are we

going to do about him?’

I don’t reply, mainly because the only solution I can think of at that moment, seeing Five in the

enemy’s uniform, is to kill him. ‘Where’s he going? Follow him,’ I tell Adam.

Adam does. The camera follows Five across the runway until he reaches a ramp that leads on to

the biggest spaceship I’ve ever seen, so massive that its entire bulk isn’t even picked up on camera.

‘Damn,’ I breathe, my eyes widening. ‘What the hell is that thing?’

‘Warship,’ Adam answers, a note of awe sneaking into his voice as he squints at the screen. ‘I

can’t tell which one.’

‘Which one?’ Sam exclaims. ‘How many of those things do they have?’

‘Dozens? Maybe more, maybe less. They run on the old fuel of Mogadore and whatever my people

managed to mine from Lorien. Not the most efficient things. And slow. When I got in trouble as a boy,

my mother would threaten to ground me until the fleet’s arrival …’ He realizes he’s rambling and

trails off, looking up at us. ‘You don’t care about this, do you?’

‘Maybe not the best time for reminiscing,’ I reply, watching as Five boards the ship. ‘But what else

can you tell us about the fleet?’

‘They’ve been traveling since the fall of Lorien,’ Adam continues. ‘Mog strategists believe they’ve

got enough firepower left for one last siege.’

‘Earth,’ I say.

‘Yeah,’ Adam replies. ‘Then, my people will settle here. Maybe rebuild the fleet if Setrákus Ra

finds a reason.’

‘You mean if there’s any life in the universe left for him to conquer,’ I say.

Sam shakes his head, still marveling at the hulking warship. ‘So they have a secret weakness, right?

Like how you can shoot that one spot on the Death Star and the whole thing blows up?’

Adam’s brow furrows. ‘What’s a Death Star?’

Sam throws up his hands. ‘We’re screwed.’

‘If they’ve been taken prisoner and are aboard that thing …’ I don’t finish the thought, mainly

because a course of action just isn’t coming to me. Taking over a mostly abandoned Mogadorian base

is one thing; finding a way aboard a massive warship is another entirely.

Especially when that massive warship is slowly rising into the sky. Maybe Sam’s right and we are

screwed.

The three of us watch in silence as the warship climbs. Before it’s entirely offscreen, the ship’s

carapace flickers and the whole thing disappears from view. Well, not entirely – the ship’s outline is still vaguely visible, as if the light around it is bending in strange ways. The distortion is almost like trying to focus on an object that’s underwater.

‘Cloaking,’ Adam says. ‘All of the warships have it.’

‘Hey, look at the tablet,’ Sam says. ‘Maybe everything isn’t totally depressing.’

As the now invisible warship floats upward, one of the dots on the tablet slowly pulls away from

the others. Five’s dot. After a few seconds, it begins to flicker erratically across the screen. We’ve now got two Garde indicators bouncing spastically over the map.

‘Just like Ella,’ Sam says, furrowing his brow.

‘The warship must be returning to orbit,’ Adam says. ‘Which means …’

‘Ella is already aboard one of those things,’ I finish the thought. ‘They brought her up to the fleet.’

‘How are we going to get up there?’ Sam asks.

‘We won’t have to,’ Adam responds. ‘The fleet will come to us.’

‘Oh, right,’ Sam says. ‘Worldwide invasion. So we’re planning to just wait for that?’

I tap my finger on the tablet, pointing out the three dots still in Florida. ‘The plan is to get the

others. They’re still there. We just have to –’ I stop myself when I look back at the screen. The

runway is starting to move. ‘I thought you disabled the ship. Why are they moving?’

With a hurried series of keystrokes, Adam cranes the camera down. From this angle, we can see

the crew of Mogadorians grimacing as they push the scout vessel manually towards the hangar.

‘I guess they gave up on getting it started,’ Sam observes.

One of the Mogs runs ahead to slide open the metal doors and there, caught out in the middle of the

empty hangar, are Nine, Marina and Six. Sam lets loose an excited shout that he cuts off quickly, the

harsh math sinking in, that there are three Garde where there should be four, and that Nine is carrying in his arms what is obviously a body bag.

‘Eight,’ Sam says, swallowing. ‘Shit.’

I turn to Adam, not ready to grieve yet.

‘Does this ship you’ve hacked have any guns?’

1 4

After a barrage of near-deafening blaster fire in the wide-open space of the hangar, the scout ship

goes eerily silent. Marina and I crouch next to each other, both of us huddled behind the flipped-over metal table. We exchange a look – the table didn’t sustain even a single shot of blaster fire. In fact, it doesn’t seem like the ship’s turret came even close to hitting us.

‘Nice aim, dipshit!’ Nine shouts, laughing. He’s off to the side of the table, flat on the ground, half shielding Eight’s body with his own.

I poke my head out from behind the table. Between us and the scout vessel are a dozen piles of ash,

formerly the Mogadorian mechanics. The ship’s gun turret is still smoking but hangs dormant now, not

the least bit interested in us. Cautiously, I stand up. Marina joins me.

‘What the hell is going on?’ I ask.

‘Who cares?’ Nine says, hefting Eight’s body. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘Perhaps some kind of malfunction?’ Marina proposes, inching closer to the ship, which still

blocks our way out. The three of us spread out, making sure not to stand directly in the path of the

blaster.

‘It only shot the Mogs,’ I say. ‘That’s one convenient malfunction.’

All three of us jump when the ship’s cockpit opens up with a hydraulic hiss. There’s a burst of

static from a speaker in the cockpit, and then a familiar voice rings out.

‘Guys? Can you hear me?’

‘John?’ I exclaim, not believing my ears. The last I saw him, he was in a coma along with Ella. I

sprint to the ship and jump on to its front end, standing over the open cockpit to better hear his voice.

‘It’s me, Six,’ John says. ‘It’s good to see you.’

‘See me?’ I ask, then notice the small camera mounted over the cockpit entrance. It wiggles back

and forth, almost nodding in greeting.

‘Dude, what happened?’ Nine asks, eyeing the cockpit skeptically. ‘Is your brain, like, trapped in a

Mogadorian ship now?’

‘What? No, don’t be an idiot,’ John replies, and I can picture the look of annoyed amusement on his

face. ‘We’ve taken over a Mogadorian base and used their tech to hack into this ship.’

‘Nice,’ Nine replies, like that’s all he needed to hear. He jumps effortlessly on to the ship’s hood,

still holding Eight, and lands right beside me. Our side of the saucer-shaped vessel dips a little at his weight before righting itself, the landing gear whining. Nine kicks the metal hull with his heel, testing it out. ‘So this is our ride?’

In answer, the ship’s engine begins to vibrate beneath our feet. I look down into the cockpit – there

are six hard plastic seats in there, along with a blinking dashboard covered in random Mogadorian

symbols and a set of controls that look similar to what you’d find on an airplane. Not that I’ve ever

flown one of those before, much less one made by Mogadorians.

‘We saw what happened in Chicago,’ Marina says, also climbing on to the ship.

‘Is everyone all right?’

‘Yeah,’ John replies quickly, then seems to reconsider. ‘They took Ella, but I don’t think she’s in

danger yet.’

Marina’s eyebrows shoot up in alarm, and I can feel the cold start to roll off her. ‘What do you

mean they took her?’

‘I’ll explain everything when you get in the air,’ John says. ‘First, let’s get you out of there.’

‘Sounds good,’ Nine replies, and hops down into the cockpit, gently placing Eight’s body across a

couple of the seats.

‘Uh, John, one problem,’ I say, following Nine into the antiseptic-smelling Mog ship. ‘How are we

supposed to fly this thing?’

There’s a pause on John’s end and then a different voice responds, this one with a harsh accent that

makes my shoulders tense.

‘I could fly you remotely, but I’m worried hacking into the ship’s computer might have damaged

some of the auto-navigation protocols. It’ll be safer if you do it manually with me walking you

through it,’ the Mogadorian explains quickly. Then, as if realizing we might be freaked out, the guy

adds, ‘Hey. I’m Adam.’

‘The guy Malcolm told us about,’ I say, remembering that dinner conversation.

‘Don’t worry, Six,’ Sam’s voice interjects, and I can’t help but grin at the sound of it. ‘He’s totally not evil.’

‘Oh, well, in that case, let’s fly,’ Nine says sarcastically, but settles into one of the hard-backed

plastic seats all the same. I hop into the pilot’s chair. Marina hesitates for a moment, giving the

console where the Mog’s voice came from a look of distrust.

‘How do we know that’s really John?’ she asks. ‘Setrákus Ra can change forms. This might be

some kind of trap.’ In my excitement to hear John and Sam, I hadn’t even considered the possibility

that this could be a ploy. Behind me, Nine shouts towards the communicator.

‘Hey, Johnny, remember back in Chicago? When you were claiming to be Pittacus Lore and we had

a debate about whether to go to New Mexico?’

‘Yeah,’ John’s voice sounds like it’s coming through clenched teeth.

‘How’d we settle that?’

John sighs. ‘You dangled me off the edge of the roof.’

Nine grins like that’s the best thing ever. ‘It’s definitely him.’

‘Marina,’ John says, probably thinking Nine’s little test wasn’t good enough. ‘The first time we

met, you healed two bullet wounds in my ankle. And then we almost got hit by a missile.’

A small smile forms on Marina’s face, the first I’ve seen in days. ‘I thought you were about the

coolest guy I’d ever met, John Smith.’

Nine barks out a laugh at that, shaking his head. Marina climbs aboard, taking a seat next to Eight’s

body. She drapes a hand protectively on the body bag and settles in.

‘Watch your heads,’ Adam warns as the cockpit hisses closed above us. There’s a moment where I

feel a sense of panic at being sealed inside a Mogadorian ship, but I shove that feeling down and

tightly clutch the steering apparatus. It’s dim in the cockpit, the glass having a tinted sunglasses-like look. Streams of data in compressed Mogadorian symbols are projected directly on to the glass, the

readouts something only a Mog pilot could make sense of.

‘All right,’ I say. ‘What now?’

‘Hold up,’ Nine interjects, leaning forward. ‘How come you get to drive?’

Adam’s voice comes through clear, patient but authoritative. ‘Turn the wheel in front of you. That

will rotate the ship.’

I do as he instructs, the wheel turning easily, the saucer portion of the ship doing a 180 without the wheels moving at all. I stop turning when we’re pointed towards the hangar’s exit.

‘Good,’ Adam says. ‘Now, the lever on your left moves the wheels.’

I grip the lever and push it just a tad. The ship jerks forward almost immediately. The controls are

sensitive, and it doesn’t take much pressure to get us slowly rolling out on to the runway.

‘Give it some gas, Six, damn,’ Nine complains. ‘Drive it like we stole it.’

‘Don’t listen to him,’ Marina says, hugging herself.

‘If you’re out from under the hangar, you can stop,’ Adam instructs.

I look up through the glass of the cockpit, see only sky and so let go of the lever. The ship creaks to a stop.

‘Okay,’ Adam says. ‘Now, grasp the wheel in front of you at three and nine. Do you feel the

triggers?’

I take the wheel again and feel around for the two buttons indented in its underside. ‘Got ’em,’ I

reply, testing out the trigger on the left by squeezing it. As soon as I do, the vibration from the ship’s engine reaches a bone-rattling crescendo and we rise into the air.

‘Ho, shit!’ Nine yells. Next to me, Marina squeezes herself a little tighter, closing her eyes.

‘Be careful, Six,’ she whispers.

I let go of the button and the ship effortlessly maintains its elevation. We’re hovering about twenty

yards off the ground.

‘You weren’t supposed to do that yet,’ Adam admonishes.

‘Uh, yeah, sorry. First time flying a spaceship,’ I reply.

‘No big deal,’ Adam replies. ‘The trigger on your left increases your elevation. The one on your

right decreases it.’

‘Left up, right down. Got it.’

‘Also,’ Adam says. ‘you’re in what my people call a Skimmer. It isn’t built for interplanetary

travel, so it isn’t quite a space ship.’

Nine makes a loud snoring noise. ‘Is this dude about to give us a lesson in Mogadorian aviation or

something? The hell?’

‘You know I can hear you, right?’ Adam replies over the mic. ‘And no, I am not.’

‘Sorry about Nine,’ I say, giving him a dirty look over my shoulder. ‘Does this thing come with

ejector seats?’

‘Yes, actually,’ Adam replies.

‘Whoa, now,’ Nine says, edging forward so his butt isn’t entirely on the seat. ‘Don’t get any ideas,

Six.’

I shush Nine when I hear a series of clanking noises emanating from the ship’s underbelly.

‘What is that?’ I ask.

‘Don’t worry,’ Adam replies. ‘I just remotely put up your landing gear.’

When the clanking finishes, two small panels on the steering wheel slide aside, revealing thumb-

sized buttons positioned so they can be pressed at the same time as the elevation triggers.

‘You should see a couple of buttons,’ Adam continues. ‘Depress them to accelerate. Simply let

them go to brake.’

I grip the steering wheel more tentatively than before and gently squeeze the buttons, careful not to

hit the triggers on the wheel’s underside. The Skimmer zips forward, then lurches to a stop when I let the button go.

‘It’s like a video game,’ Nine says, leaning over the back of my chair. ‘Any idiot could work this

thing. No offense, Mog guy.’

‘None taken.’

I press down the accelerator a little more forcefully and the ship shoots forward. A diagnostic on

the screen starts flashing – a warning in any language – right before I scrape the bottom of the

Skimmer against the top of a tree. I hear branches breaking and, craning my neck, see them hit the

ground below.

‘Oops,’ I say, and glance sidelong at Marina.

‘Six, I swear,’ she says, flashing me a half-panicked look.

‘You’ll want to get some more elevation,’ Adam says. ‘And, um, consider steering.’

Nine laughs and leans back. I pull the trigger for vertical and we rise up higher. As we clear the

dense trees of the swampland, the horizon becomes visible. A laser-fine dotted line appears on the

cockpit glass, superimposed over the view, like a trail.

‘I’ve plotted your course,’ Adam says. ‘Just follow the line.’

I nod and give the ship some juice, following the laser-path north.

‘All right, boys,’ I say. ‘Here we come.’

The flight from Florida to Washington takes about two hours. On Adam’s instructions, I keep our

altitude low enough that we won’t be picked up on satellites or accidentally cross paths with any

airplanes, but high enough that there won’t be a rash of UFO sightings along the Eastern Seaboard.

Although, considering how serious the threat of all-out Mogadorian invasion seems, maybe we should

let our stolen ship be seen, shoot off some fireworks, warn the locals.

After the initial rush of elation at hearing John and Sam, at knowing our friends are alive, the

conversation turns grim. Over the radio, they describe what went down at the John Hancock Center.

After that, John tells us about what he saw in the nightmare vision he shared with Ella and why he

thinks Setrákus Ra doesn’t want to hurt her. John’s pieced together a theory that Ella could be related to Setrákus Ra and that the Mogadorian ruler could actually be some kind of twisted Loric, the

banished Elder mentioned in Crayton’s letter. I’m not ready to grapple with that yet.

Once John’s caught us up, it’s our turn to fill in the others on what happened in Florida. Even over

the radio, I can tell John’s trying not to press us too much. I think about the days that John’s been

living with a fresh scar on his ankle, wondering which one of us wouldn’t be making it back – as

much as it hurts to talk about, he deserves to know what happened to Eight. However, neither Marina

nor Nine are very forthcoming, so it falls to me to describe how Five betrayed us, how he murdered

Eight technically by accident, but only because he was actually trying to murder Nine. I was

unconscious for most of the fight, so I keep the description bare bones, just the facts, not sugarcoating anything. Then, I give them the details of rescuing Eight’s body from the Mogadorian encampment and

tell them about what Five did to his Mogadorian pal. When I’m finished, a grim mood settles inside

the cockpit and we ride in silence until we reach suburban D.C.

I land the ship in the middle of a basketball court. We’re in a fancy-ass suburban development, one

made extraordinarily eerie by all its darkened windows and general emptiness. The cockpit opens for

us and Marina flashes me a relieved look as she stands up. Carefully, Nine picks up Eight’s body and

climbs out of the ship. Marina stays close to him, her hand on Nine’s elbow, making sure that Eight

doesn’t get jostled too much. It’s still hard to believe that’s our friend in that body bag, and it feels wrong to be carrying him around so much.

‘Your travels are almost over,’ I overhear Marina whisper to Eight’s body. She must feel the same

as I do.

Marina and I hop down to the ground and turn around to help Nine lower Eight’s body. Instead of

passing Eight down, Nine squints into the darkness around us.

‘Whoa,’ he says. ‘There are, like, some random creatures watching us right now.’

‘Creatures?’ I reply, looking up at him. Nine’s expression has gone blank – well, blanker than

usual – the way he gets when he’s using his animal telepathy.

‘Oh, I forgot to mention we found some new friends!’

It’s John, jogging towards us from the crooked doorway of a house that looks half smashed, like the

ground tried to swallow it up but couldn’t quite finish. Sam is a few steps behind him, beaming at me, although when he notices me noticing him, he quickly tones down the wattage of his smile, going for

something a little less eager. Behind John and Sam, pushing a gurney, are Malcolm and a pale, lanky

guy that I assume must be Adam, the dark hair hanging in his face making him look half-Mog and half-

emo rock star.

‘So many Chimærae,’ Nine says, nodding excitedly as he gazes out into the darkness. ‘That’s

awesome.’

‘We named the chubby, lazy one after you,’ Sam replies.

‘Less awesome.’

Upon reaching us, John wraps Marina in a tight hug. It’s dark out, but I can see days of worry

etched in the dark bags under his eyes. I remember that wide-eyed kid I found fighting Mogadorians at

his high school and wonder if John felt like that again, like he was back to being alone against the

world. It should be a relief that we’re reunited, but we’re one less, and I know John well enough to

know that he’s been beating himself up over our loss for days.

‘You made it,’ John says as he lets Marina go and hugs me next. His voice is quiet, for me only. ‘I

didn’t know what I was going to do if –’

‘You don’t have to say anything,’ I reply, squeezing him back. ‘We’re here now. We’re going to

fight. We’re going to win.’

John takes a step back from me, a relieved look briefly passing across his face, like he needed

someone to tell him that. He nods to me and then walks over to the ship, taking Eight’s body in his

arms so that Nine can jump down. Everyone falls silent as Malcolm wheels the gurney forward so

that John can set down the body.

‘The Mogs put something on him,’ Marina says. She takes a lurching step towards the gurney.

‘Some electrical field.’

Adam takes a tentative step forward and clears his throat. ‘Electrodes? Over the heart? On the

temples?’

‘Yes,’ Marina replies without looking at Adam, her eyes fixed on Eight’s body bag.

‘The Mogs use that to, uh …’ Adam pauses, then finishes awkwardly. ‘To keep specimens fresh. It

won’t harm the remains, just preserve them.’

‘Specimens,’ Nine repeats dryly.

‘I’m sorry about your friend,’ Adam says quietly, pushing a hand through his hair. ‘I just thought

you should know …’

‘It’s all right. Thanks, Adam,’ John says. He puts a hand on Marina’s shoulder. ‘Come on. Let’s get

him inside.’

‘What –’ Marina chokes up and has to take a deep breath. ‘What’re you going to do with him?’

‘We’ve set aside a quiet room inside,’ Malcolm replies gently. ‘I’m not sure what customs the

Loric have for burials …’

I look first at John, whose face is scrunched up in thought, then at Nine, who looks absolutely

baffled.

‘We don’t know them either,’ I say. ‘I mean, when was the last time we had a chance to properly

honor one of our fallen?’

‘We can’t bury him here, though,’ Marina says. ‘This is a Mog place.’

Malcolm nods, understanding, and touches Marina softly on the shoulder. ‘Do you want to help me

bring him inside?’

Marina nods. Together, she and Malcolm wheel Eight’s body back towards the sunken house.

Adam follows them at a respectful distance, his hands clasped awkwardly behind his back. After a

moment, Nine claps John hard on the back, breaking the tension.

‘So did I mishear over the communicator, or did you send your girlfriend off on a super-sexy secret

mission with her ex-boyfriend?’

‘We’re fighting a war here, Nine, it’s not a joke,’ John replies sternly. After a moment’s awkward

pause, a begrudging smile breaks on his face. ‘Also, shut up. It’s not super sexy. What does that even mean?’

‘Wow, you really need my guidance,’ Nine says. He throws his arm around John’s shoulders and

leads him towards the house. ‘Come on. I’ll explain what sexy is.’

‘I know what it – ugh, why am I even discussing this with you?’ John shoves Nine in frustration, but

Nine just holds on tighter. ‘Get off me, idiot.’

‘Come on, Johnny, you need my affection now more than ever.’

I roll my eyes as the guys walk towards the house, having their little bro moment. That leaves me

alone with Sam, standing a few feet away, looking at me intently. I can see him trying to figure out

what to say, or more likely working up the nerve to say it. The guy’s probably been chewing on this

moment for hours, working on his amazing speech to the girl he wasn’t sure he’d ever see again.

‘Hey,’ is what he settles on at last.

‘Hey back,’ I reply, and before he can get another word out, I wrap my arms around him and kiss

him hard enough that I probably knock the wind out of him. Sam seems stunned at first but kisses back

after a moment, trying to match my intensity. I grab him by the front of the shirt and pull him so that we’re pressed up against the side of the Skimmer – not exactly the most romantic place in the world,

but I’ll take it. I grab Sam’s hands and put them on my hips, then clutch the sides of his face and run my fingers up through his hair, all this desperate energy pouring out of me and into this kiss.

After a couple of minutes, Sam breaks away from me, breathless. ‘Six, whoa, what is going on?’

The look on Sam’s face isn’t what I was expecting. Yes, there’s flushed bewilderment, but mixed

in with that surprise is an undercurrent of concern. It makes me look away.

‘I just really wanted to do that,’ I reply, telling him the truth. ‘I didn’t know if I’d get another

chance.’

I press my face against the side of Sam’s neck and feel his heartbeat against my cheek. I’ve spent

the last few days putting on a strong front, trying to keep it together with Marina and Nine both on the verge of falling apart. Finally, at least while we’re out here in the dark, I can let myself go a little bit.

Sam has me around the waist, so I sink against him, let him hold me up and take a shuddering breath

against his neck.

‘It can just end so quickly …,’ I whisper, leaning back to get a look at him. ‘I didn’t want to not have done that, you know? I don’t care if it complicates things.’

‘Me neither,’ Sam says. ‘Obviously.’

We start to kiss again, this time a lot gentler, Sam’s hands slowly moving up my sides. When the

wolf howls – loud, echoing, nearby – my first instinct is that it’s Nine spying on us from the house and making stupid noises. But then a second and third wolf make a howling chorus and I lean back to peer

at Sam.

‘What the hell is that?’ I ask. ‘Wolves in the suburbs?’

‘I don’t know –’ he starts to reply, but then his eyes widen. ‘The Chimærae. They’re warning us.’

A moment after he says it, I hear the whup-whup-whup of at least three helicopters bearing down on us. If I squint, I can see their outlines approaching in the night sky. And then there are the blue flashing lights coming from the housing development’s only access road; the lights are attached to a

caravan of black SUVs, all of them speeding in our direction.

1 5

At the sound of screeching tires and helicopter rotors, Nine and I burst back outside, leaping over the house’s broken porch and on to the lawn. We’re just in time to see a lightning strike slice down from

the sky, courtesy of Six. It’s a warning shot; the bolt erupts a piece of asphalt right in front of a black SUV that’s careening up the access road, causing it to swerve.

‘The hell is this?’ Nine growls. ‘I thought we were done with the feds.’

‘Adam said they’re supposed to leave this place alone,’ I reply. ‘Some deal with the Mogs.’

‘I guess that ended when you killed them all, huh?’

There are three choppers overhead, circling like vultures. Some signal must pass between them,

because they all turn on spotlights at the same time. One of them trains on me and Nine, another on the entrance of the house behind us and a third on Six and Sam. In the bright light, I notice Sam, unarmed, quickly climbing into the Skimmer for cover. Six, her hands splayed in the air, in the process of

summoning some nasty weather for our uninvited guests, goes invisible before the spotlight can really

get a fix on her.

Meanwhile, undeterred by the lightning strike, a parade of black SUVs files up the access road,

blue lights flashing beneath their windshields. They skid to a stop next to each other in a tight

formation, eventually creating a blockade of bulletproof glass and shiny, dent-resistant paneling.

Their doors fling open and a bunch of agents in identical navy-blue windbreakers leap out. The ones

who aren’t yelling into walkie-talkies have guns trained on us, all of them hunkered behind their car

doors for cover. It takes them less than a minute to have us pinned down in the cul-de-sac.

‘Do they really think this will stop us?’ Nine asks as he takes a step away from the house, almost

daring the agents to try shooting him.

‘I don’t know what they’re thinking,’ I reply. ‘But they don’t know about the Chimærae.’

I can sense them lurking in the shadows just off the access road. These government guys might think

they’ve got us surrounded, but the glowing eyes in the darkness would argue otherwise. The

Chimærae hold their position, waiting for a signal.

I hear a creak behind me and half turn to find Marina on the porch, jagged icicles extending from

her hands like twin daggers. That’s new. Next to her, using the doorway for cover, is Adam, holding a

Mogadorian blaster.

‘What do we do?’ Marina asks.

I notice storm clouds gathering overhead. Six is ready to throw down if we need to. But so far, the

government guys haven’t done anything except make a lot of noise. They didn’t come in shooting,

which is the only reason I haven’t fired up my Lumen.

‘I don’t want to hurt them if we don’t have to,’ I say. ‘But we don’t have time for any bullshit. I’m

damn sure not being taken in for questioning.’

Apparently, Nine interprets my words as encouragement to do something crazy. He strides forward

and picks up the base of Dr Anu’s chair, which got sheared in half by blaster fire during this

afternoon’s battle. The thing must weigh close to two hundred pounds, but Nine hefts it easily with

one hand, swinging it back and forth as a demonstration.

‘You guys are on private property!’ Nine shouts. ‘And I don’t see any warrants!’

Before I can stop him, Nine flings the entire chunk into the air, putting it just inches from the nose of the nearest helicopter. It’s pretty obvious from my vantage point that the chopper isn’t in any real

danger, but I guess the human pilot isn’t used to having superstrong Garde chucking scrap metal at

him. The pilot pulls back on his controls and the chopper shakily gains altitude, its spotlight making erratic trails across the lawn. The chair piece comes down with a loud crash in the middle of the

street.

‘That was unnecessary,’ Adam observes from the doorway.

‘Eh, agree to disagree,’ Nine says.

As he bends down to pick up another piece of the chair, I hear the telltale cocking of guns from the

line of SUVs. Six must hear them too from wherever she’s lurking, because a wave of fog suddenly

rolls across the lawns of Ashwood Estates, making us much harder to target.

I light my Lumen and step forward, putting myself between Nine and the SUVs. I hold up my hands

so the agents can clearly see that they’re enveloped in fire.

‘I don’t know why you’re here,’ I yell towards the line of cars, ‘but you’re making a mistake. This

is a fight you seriously cannot win. Smartest thing you can do is go back to your bosses and tell them there was nothing here.’

To punctuate the speech, I send a telepathic command to our Chimærae. Howls rings out from the

darkness on the SUVs’ flanks. Suddenly panicked, some of the agents start aiming their guns into the

shadows, and one of the choppers uses its spotlight to begin combing the fields alongside the access

road. We’ve got them scared.

‘Last warning!’ I shout, letting a basketball-sized fireball float up from my palm.

‘Jesus Christ!’ a woman’s voice shouts from the line of cars. ‘Everybody stand down!’

One by one, the agents at the cars lower their weapons. As they do, one of them squeezes between

a pair of SUVs and walks towards us, her hands raised in surrender. Through the fog, I recognize her

rigid posture and severe ponytail.

‘Agent Walker? Is that you?’

Next to me, Nine laughs. ‘Oh, come on. You going to try arresting us again?’

Walker grimaces as she gets closer, her sharp features more lined than I remember. She’s pale, an

alarming streak of gray running through her red hair. I try to remember how badly she was hurt back at Dulce Base. Could she still be feeling the effects of that?

Before she can get too close, Six manifests behind Walker and grabs her by the ponytail. ‘Not

another step,’ she snarls.

Walker, eyes wide, obediently stops. Six reaches down and takes the gun off her hip, dropping it

into the grass.

‘I’m sorry for the commotion,’ Walker says, her voice slightly strangled thanks to the angle Six has

her head at. ‘My agents saw that Mogadorian ship land and we thought you might be under attack.’

I let the Lumen in my hands go out, tilting my head at her. ‘Wait. You came rushing in here because

you thought we were under attack?’

‘I know you have no reason to believe me,’ Walker says, her voice hoarse. ‘But we’re here to

help.’

Next to me, Nine scoffs. I stare hard at Walker, waiting for the punch line, or the secret signal for

her men to open fire.

‘Please,’ she says. ‘Just hear me out.’

I sigh and motion towards the house. ‘Bring her in,’ I tell Six, then turn to Nine. ‘If the rest of them try anything even a little suspicious –’

Nine cracks his knuckles. ‘Oh, I know what to do.’

Six shoves Walker up the broken steps of Adam’s house and through the front door. I follow a few

steps behind, leaving the rest of our friends to keep an eye on the small army of government agents.

‘Is that a Mogadorian I saw out there?’ Walker asks as Six pushes her into the living room. ‘You

have one of them prisoner?’

‘He’s an ally,’ I say. ‘Right now, you’re the prisoner.’

‘Understood,’ Walker says, sounding more tired than anything. Without Six having to push her,

Walker sits down heavily on one of the sofas. In the light of the living room, I can see that there’s

definitely something off about her. Maybe it’s owing to the odd streak of gray in her hair, but Walker looks drained. She notices the entrance to the Mogadorian tunnels but doesn’t look particularly

interested or surprised.

‘Ah, a guest,’ Malcolm says as he appears in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen,

his rifle slung over his shoulder. ‘And she brought lots of friends. Is everything all right?’

‘I’m not sure yet,’ I reply, an edge to my voice, keeping my guard up. Six circles around the couch

so she can stand where Walker can’t see her.

‘Hm,’ Malcolm says. ‘I was about to put a pot of coffee on. Would anyone else like some? I think I

saw some tea in the kitchen, too.’

A shaky smile forms on Walker’s face. ‘Is this some kind of good-cop, bad-cop routine?’ She

looks from Malcolm to me. ‘Is he one of your … what do you call them? Cêpans?’

Six raises her hand to Malcolm. ‘I’ll take a cup, actually.’ When I flash her an annoyed look, she

shrugs. ‘What? Trust me, I can drink some coffee and take down this lady at the same time, if I need

to.’

Agent Walker glances over her shoulder at Six. ‘I believe her.’

I stride forward so I’m standing right in front of Walker and snap my fingers in her face. ‘All right, stop wasting time. Say what you came here to say.’

‘Agent Purdy is dead,’ Walker states, looking up at me. ‘Had a heart attack at Dulce Base.’

‘Aw, I remember him,’ Six says. ‘What a shame.’

I remember Agent Walker’s partner, too – an older guy, white hair, crooked nose. I shrug, not

seeing what this has to do with us. ‘Condolences, I guess. So what?’

‘Guy was a prick,’ Walker replies. ‘It isn’t so much that he croaked, it’s what happened after.’

Walker shows me her hands, then very slowly reaches into the front pocket of her FBI-issue

windbreaker. She removes a stuffed Manila folder, rolled-up and rubber-banded. She opens it up,

reaches inside and pulls out a Polaroid photograph. Walker hands it to me and I find myself

examining a close-up of a dead Agent Purdy – or what’s left of him. Half his face is melted away,

disintegrated into ash on the concrete underneath him.

‘I thought you said it was a heart attack,’ I say.

‘It was,’ Walker replies. ‘Thing is, afterward, Purdy started to dissolve away. Just like one of the

Mogadorians.’

I shake my head. ‘What does that mean? Why?’

‘He’d been getting treatments,’ Walker says. ‘Augmentations, the Mogs call them. Most of the

senior MogPro people have been getting them for years.’

The term ‘MogPro’ rings a bell from They Walk Among Us, but I don’t know how this all adds up

with the augmentations Adam told us about.

‘Back up,’ I tell her. ‘Start at the beginning.’

Walker self-consciously touches her streak of gray hair and for a moment I wonder if she’s having

second thoughts about this confession. But then she hands me the folder she’s been clutching, meeting

my eyes.