“All right,” Nine says with a smirk. “Let’s go knock some evil politician heads in the Big Apple.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Keep that phone with you, Dad. I’ll call you when I have news.”
He tries to give me a quick side hug, but I pull him in closer.
“Good-bye, son. Be careful.”
“I will. I’ll see you soon.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
These kids all think they’re invincible, but they’re not. Even some of the Garde, with all their abilities, have been killed. For a second I wonder if I can talk Sam out of going. Call him and tell him to get dropped off at a gas station or something where I can pick him up. He could help me sift through the years of Mogadorian data stored in the underground facilities. But I know he’d never agree to that, and I’m pretty sure I don’t have the authority to flat-out forbid him from going. He’s already made so many tough choices on his own without me. Why would he listen to me now?
CHAPTER TWO
GOD KNOWS I’D PROBABLY BE MORE ALERT IF I had a few hours of sleep, but I can’t imagine closing my eyes and drifting off while Sam is en route to New York. Not when there’s work to be done. So instead I manage to snag a cup of coffee from the pot in the kitchen and head back into the bowels of Ashwood. With any luck, I’ll find some kind of secret weapon that’ll take down the Mogs. Or at least some information we can use against them.
Anything to make me feel like I’m actually contributing.
A long stairwell leads into the tunnels from a back room in Adam’s home, plaster and brick giving way to concrete and eventually smooth metal walls as I descend. Everything is hard, gray and clinical. The hairs on the back of my neck start to prickle the farther down the steps I go, though I’m not sure if it’s because the air is getting cooler or because terrible things happened to me here, even if I barely remember any of them. Gamera follows close behind me in the form of a dragonfly hovering over my shoulder. I nod to the Chimæra. It’s good to know my son is watching out for me, of course, but at the same time it makes me feel like a failure. I should be the one protecting him.
The underground portion of Ashwood Estates is a labyrinth. A sublevel snaking through the entire community with tunnels that stretch on in twists and turns for what seem like miles. As if that weren’t confusing enough, several of the passageways and rooms are completely caved in—something we have Adam to thank for, that eternity ago when he freed me from captivity here and let loose his newfound earthquake Legacy. Who knows what hides behind the collapsed hallways, what knowledge we lost when equipment was smashed? If we weren’t on the brink of losing the Earth, maybe we’d have time to find out.
There are plenty of rooms still standing, though. Laboratories and detainment cells, for example. I pass them, eyeing strange devices and surgical tools that send shivers down my spine. This place is still dangerous to me. Not just because of the questionable structural integrity, but because of the feeling I get when I walk through its hallways: the faintest wave of recognition followed by a stabbing pain in my head. There is something in the smell of the place—musty, charged with electrical equipment—that is familiar, like all the memories I’ve forgotten are just out of reach, waiting to be reclaimed. These tunnels fill every cell of my body with dread.
Fortunately, most of that subsides when I reach the facility’s archives. I don’t think I ever entered it during my imprisonment, because I can breathe a sigh of relief when I step through the doorway. That’s not to say the room is exactly cozy, nothing like the dusty libraries full of books and overstuffed chairs from my days at the university. This archive is just as uninviting as the rest of the underground level. Monitors and computer terminals line steel tables, their keyboards an unfamiliar shape and covered in markings I don’t understand. Cabinets full of servers and hard drive storage banks line the walls, humming in tune with the fluorescent lights overhead. There’s even a shelf holding a row of blasters on the far side of the room—the Mogs can apparently never be too far away from their weapons.
I stretch, my back cracking, and take a seat at one of the metal chairs in front of a computer terminal. This is the little space I’ve made my own over the last day: a computer, a handheld electronic tablet, a notebook, a small duffel bag full of tools and documents that might prove useful and a graveyard of dirty mugs. I put on a pair of headphones and flit through the list of Mog recordings on the screen until I find where I left off. Then I start watching.
Apart from being ruthless warriors, the Mogadorians also seem to be absurdly thorough when it comes to recording themselves, though I’m not sure whether this is strictly for some kind of historical record or is the by-product of a fascist regime wanting to keep track of its many moving parts. I fast-forward through dozens of videos, almost all of which are in the Mogadorian language and useless to me now that Adam is gone. Occasionally I find one in English, but those are mostly communiqués between human MogPro associates that contain either nothing useful or information we already know. I log anything of the slightest interest in my notebook. The whole process is mind-numbing, and at some point my eyes must start to glaze over, because I don’t realize someone else is in the room with me until there’s a hand on my shoulder.
I spin around, almost falling out of my chair as I try to get to my feet.
The man behind me is an FBI agent wearing a black suit. He’s younger than me, maybe thirty, with olive skin, short dark hair, and several days’ worth of stubble. On the stool beside me, Gamera has taken the form of a cat, eyes locked on the agent, ready to pounce and morph. The animal must have realized his usual turtle form might draw unwanted attention from the agents.
The man holds out a hand.
“Agent Noto. Walker”—he hesitates slightly—“insisted that I might be a valuable resource to you.”
I wave my hand towards the feline at my side.
“I’ve already got a bodyguard.” He doesn’t find this funny. I continue. “I’m sure your Bureau skills will be more useful up there instead of watching me sift through alien data files.”
He smirks a little, but it’s hard to tell if it’s out of annoyance or amusement.
“I assure you I’m more than just a gun, Dr. Goode.”
It’s been so long since someone called me “doctor” that the word sounds strange attached to my name. I almost can’t believe there was a time when students and colleagues called me that on a daily basis.
Noto continues.
“In the past I served as a liaison to the Mogadorians. Before we realized what their true intentions were.”
“Ah. So you have a good idea of who we’re dealing with.”
“I can even understand some of their language. Though I admit that I’m probably on the equivalent of a kindergarten level when it comes to reading it.”
Finally, a windfall.
“Please,” I say, shaking his hand. “Call me Malcolm.”
He takes a seat on the other side of the desk and I get him caught up, pointing him towards a set of files to examine. I try to explain that we’re looking for anything useful, even if that’s a vague description. He seems to understand. We work in relative silence for hours, talking only about our findings, comparing notes. It’s fruitless work. I don’t uncover anything particularly helpful, and Noto’s progress is slow. He often spends fifteen minutes on a file before realizing it’s an order for more food supplies or inconsequential reports on traffic around Ashwood.
Eventually I open up a file that causes me to freeze, my heart pounding in my chest. I recognize the face of the human on camera. I can even give him a name, though it takes me a moment to pin it down in my head.
Ethan.
The problem is, I don’t know why I know his face and name.
The file appears to be a video conference between Ethan and a Mogadorian. Based on the tattoos, I’m guessing it’s a high-ranking official. Ethan is reciting a list of names, giving facts about them and their locations. The words
trigger something in my memory, illuminating one of the dark places I’d thought long lost. Faces flash through my head of men and women who helped the Loric refugees when they first arrived on Earth. People I recruited.
Greeters.
That’s when I realize who Ethan is. He had been one of them. A Greeter. No, that’s not right. He was going to be one, but I cut him loose before he fulfilled his duty for some reason. He wasn’t there when the Loric landed. There’s something else, just out of reach. I didn’t trust him—but why not?
As I continue watching, I start to understand a little more. He worked with the Mogs. A traitor detailing everything he knew about the Greeters and the Loric, which wasn’t much. Still, it was probably enough to give the Mogs a few leads.
In fact, it sounds like the Mogs already had at least one of the Greeters captured at the time this video was taken thanks to Ethan’s information. I wonder, was it me?
New images shoot through my mind. Some of the same faces as before, only this time they’re pale, broken, bloodied. They’re here, at Ashwood, being shown to me as a threat or a warning that if I don’t tell Dr. Anu—the head scientist at Ashwood—everything he wants to know, I will end up like them.
Dead. Murdered.
I swallow down the waffles and coffee that are rising in my throat as Ethan continues to talk. Based on what he says, it sounds like the message is old—from before everything happened in Paradise. Even so, Ethan lets a bombshell slip: he’s been put in charge of training and recruiting Garde Number Five. He’s already had contact with the boy.
The video ends, and everything comes crashing down on me. Despite all the confusion and gaps in my memories, I know some things to be true. I was in charge of recruiting the Greeters. I must have brought Ethan on board at some point, even if I did kick him out of the group before the Loric arrived. Ethan turned on us and likely molded Five into the traitor he is now.
And because of that, Eight is dead.
It’s an easy line to follow, the dots almost connecting themselves and creating a direct link from me to Eight’s corpse. I take my glasses off and squeeze the bridge of my nose, trying to shake the pounding that suddenly fills my head as these memories and realizations flood in. Not only did I give the Mogs knowledge of the Sanctuary, I helped them turn one of the Loric into a Mog sympathizer. Who knows what other terrible things I did while under their control—or that I accidentally set into motion just trying to help the Garde. Will I wake up tomorrow and suddenly discover that I helped plan this invasion too? How do I begin to atone for all this?
I realize Noto is staring at me. His face is steely, but there’s a hint of concern behind his eyes. Or maybe suspicion.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just a headache.”
“Maybe you should take a break,” he suggests. “Get some air.”
I nod, but make no effort to move.
“I’m sure none of this can be easy, coming back here,” Noto says. “Walker gave me a quick overview of what happened to you. It’s kind of funny, actually. I investigated your disappearance from Paradise.” He pauses. “Well, I guess ‘funny’ isn’t really the right word.”
This is something I didn’t expect. He looks far too young to have been involved in the case.
“You did?” I ask.
“Not originally, but after the Mog incident at the high school—you know about that, right?”
“I do.”
“That’s when our team went to Ohio. I spent some time looking into your old missing person’s case. It was a hell of a puzzle. Like you just vanished off the face of the earth.” He squints a little, staring at me. “You still don’t remember what happened?”
“Nothing about my abduction,” I say with a sigh. “I’m not sure I’ll ever know what happened. I’ve tried putting everything back together. Strange things will trigger a memory. Mostly just flashes of images and feelings. But even those are difficult to hold on to or understand. There are even missing spots from years before I was taken. Whatever they did broke me. They took so much of my life away.”
“I can’t imagine.”
I think of the Greeters again, and of the video I discovered earlier where I’m drugged or brainwashed, being controlled in some way.
“That’s probably a good thing,” I say. “The Mogadorians did terrible things here—to me and to others. Still, I’d gladly remember every excruciating detail if it meant having all my good memories back as well.”
“When you put it that way”—he flounders for the right words—“it’s a lot of lost time.”
I cock my head to one side a bit. Something he said earlier isn’t adding up.
“Why were you looking into my disappearance? That was so long ago, and with everything that must have been happening after the attack on the school, surely you had more important things to worry about.”
“Your son was a prime suspect and was missing. We couldn’t rule out the idea that you were working off the grid somewhere with John Smith or the Mogadorians even. If they had only told us they had you. . . .”
He stops, realizing that he’s digging himself into a hole, reminding me that while I was in a coma a few rooms down, he and the rest of Walker’s agents were working with my captors.
“We didn’t know.” His eyes meet mine. He sounds earnest, though I can’t tell if he’s trying to convince himself or me. “All the civilian casualties and detainments, the plans for invasion . . . Jesus, we just thought we were getting high-tech weapons and medical enhancements out of helping them find some alien fugitives.”
Anger bubbles in my stomach as he speaks, not at him but at all of it: the FBI, the Mogs, my imprisonment. I try to push it down and focus on what’s important.
“Well, we’d better make up for both of our sins. Taking down the Mogs might not absolve us of the things we’ve done under their influence, but it sounds like a pretty good start to me.”
Noto nods a little. We sit in silence for a few moments before a new question comes to my mind.
“You were investigating Sam. What did you find?”
He takes a deep breath, looking a little relieved. “Solid grades. Exceptional aptitude in sciences. An understandable obsession with conspiracy theories and space. I wouldn’t want to poke around the internet history of most teenagers, but Sam spent the majority of his free time researching faraway planets and talking about potential extraterrestrial sightings on message boards. I mean, he also pirated a lot of movies and music, but all in all he seems like a pretty good kid.”
“I can’t take credit for any of that,” I say, a pang of guilt in my gut.
Noto shakes his head. “You’re telling me it’s just a coincidence that your son grew up to become an ally to the Loric? Something you did must have rubbed off on him.”
“Now, if only I can remember what that was,” I say, trying to make a joke of it but failing. “I swear, if Anu and Zakos weren’t dead already, I’d kill them myself.”
Noto’s face suddenly twists, his brow furrowing. “Who?”
“Dr. Anu. He was the first Mogadorian doctor who—”
“No, the other one,” Noto says. He’s not looking at me now but tapping on the keyboard.
“Zakos,” I mutter. “He . . . After Dr. Anu died he was the one who oversaw my captivity. He was evil. I mean, they both were, but Zakos seemed to take pleasure in his experimentation. A Mogadorian Mengele. He almost killed Adam, from what I understand. But Adam got to him first, when we escaped.”
Noto shakes his head.
“That was in the fall, right? When you escaped?”
“Yes.” Once I’d carried Adam out of the destroyed tunnels, sneaking away in the chaos and confusion, we crisscrossed the country trying to avoid being recaptured. Weeks flew by in a haze. We spent a lot of time sleeping in fields and living off scraps we found. “By the time I figured enough time had passed and I dared go back to Paradise to reunite with my family, Sam was gone.”
“Right . . .” Noto’s voice i
s quiet, distant, like he’s not really listening anymore. His eyes are locked on his screen.
“What is it?”
“I’ve got a recording here of Dr. Zakos.” He raises his head and meets my eyes. “It’s from earlier this year. Whatever happened to him here, he survived.”
“No,” I mutter, coming around to his screen. “That’s not possible. Adam knocked him out, and then the ceiling came down around him when—”
But he’s there on the screen. In the background his lab is in shambles, the walls cracked and floor covered in rubble. It’s obviously after Adam partially destroyed the sublevel. He looks pleased with himself, black eyes shining in the paused image.
It takes me a few seconds to comprehend what I’m seeing, but then it hits me in my chest. Dr. Zakos—the butcher, the mad scientist, the monster—is still alive. He’s still fighting against us.
Somewhere in the darkest parts of my mind, there’s a strange flash. Not joy, exactly, but something like it as I realize I might have the chance to face one of my former captors.
“It sounds like he’s been called in for some top secret project that Setrákus Ra is overseeing. Something they think will ensure Mogadorian victory.”
Before I can say anything, though, Noto’s walkie-talkie crackles.
“Noto, get up here! Something’s happening in New York.”
BACK ADS
DISCOVER
your next favorite read
MEET
new authors to love
WIN
free books
SHARE
infographics, playlists, quizzes, and more
WATCH
the latest videos
TUNE IN
to Tea Time with Team Epic Reads
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
AUTHOR PHOTO © HOWARD HUANG
PITTACUS LORE is Lorien’s ruling Elder. He has been on Earth preparing for the war that will decide Earth’s fate. His whereabouts are unknown.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.