“The administration went through widespread upheaval yesterday when everything went to hell. A veritable FBI hit squad ordered by your friend Agent Walker took care of most of what you referred to as ‘MogPro.’ They’re in custody now. Those who escaped are in hiding. The men and women here have either been vetted or, in some cases, brought out of retirement to serve. Still, we’re keeping a close eye on everyone.”
My room is definitely bugged.
“Is that part of why we’re so isolated? Do the other people here not know where we are either?”
“Let us decide who we can and can’t trust,” he says as we pass by a series of doors that cause me to wonder how many people, exactly, are down here. “Remember that you’ve been brought here as a special adviser but that your advice should only be given when solicited. Whatever decisions are made here are final and for the greater good of the country—and above all else, they’re classified. Sharing any information you hear with unauthorized persons will be considered an act of treason.”
“Sure,” I say, wondering if it would’ve been smarter to have stayed in Ashwood after all.
Richards stops in front of two thick double doors guarded by four armed men in military fatigues.
“The fate of America and quite possibly the world is being decided here. There’s a chair for you against the back wall. Stay quiet until you’re spoken to.”
He pushes open one of the doors and ushers me through.
It’s dimly lit inside, most of the light coming from the huge monitors that cover the walls, showing news feeds from around the world. At least two of them are showing the footage from Sarah’s video about John and the Garde. Another shows shaky cam footage of a destroyed building in Manhattan.
Is Sam safe?
The room itself is almost entirely filled by a giant rectangular table of lacquered mahogany where a dozen men and women sit. They range from my age to people well into their sixties, maybe even a little older. I recognize a few of them as cabinet members. A handful of younger-looking aides flit around in the background, taking notes, tapping on electronic devices, occasionally whispering into the ear of someone seated at the table.
Voices fill the air, overlapping one another, all vying for attention.
“. . . the National Guard in Brooklyn. Troops are being mobilized in Georgia but the fastest we could get them there . . .”
“. . . obviously it would be a last resort, but we do have untested prototype weapons that could prove to be effective . . .”
“. . . saw what happened in China. The warships are protected by some kind of force field. We might as well be bombing our own civilians if we launch missiles at them. . . .”
“. . . suggests a full-scale evacuation of major American cities might save millions of lives, but the cost and logistics would . . .”
“. . . march forces across the Brooklyn Bridge while simultaneously dropping units into Central Park . . .”
At the far end of the room, Arnold Jackson, the president of the United States, stands with his back to everyone. He’s got a landline phone to his ear. After a few seconds he lowers it. I watch as he takes a deep breath, composing himself, before turning around to the table. He doesn’t sit, just leans over with his hands pressed on top of the polished wood. There are bags under his eyes. His close-cropped black hair is peppered with gray, more so than I’ve noticed on TV. He looks like he’s aged ten years in the last twenty-four hours. The rest of the room goes quiet.
“The European Union is officially open to the idea of negotiating with Ra despite strong disapproval from several nations, including Germany and Spain. There are widespread riots in Moscow. There’s been visual confirmation of a ship over North Korea, but there’s no communications coming out of the country, so we have no idea how they’re going to react. No one plans to attack the ships after seeing what happened in Beijing and what resistance in New York led to, but everyone is quietly assembling forces for a counterstrike if necessary. And here we are, hiding underground while warships hover over millions of American citizens. So tell me, what do we do now?”
Everyone starts to talk at once. It lasts for maybe five seconds.
“Enough,” Jackson says. He turns to an older man seated at his left who’s dressed in an officer’s uniform covered in stars and pins. “General Lawson. What’s your assessment of the situation?”
Lawson leans back in his chair.
“New York and Beijing were power plays,” he says. He speaks slowly, with a vague Southern accent I can’t place. “These aliens are smart. They’ve been slowly infiltrating us for years. That means they know how we function as individual countries and as a planet. They know how we tick. You don’t just destroy a city like New York because of a bad-press event. You do it to show you’re the ones with the power. That you can do it again. New York was their A-bomb. Hell, I’d bet that the counterattacks in Beijing were orchestrated by the bastards to show the rest of the world that they can’t be touched. They’re telling us, in no subtle terms, that this world is theirs if they want it. Seems to me like we’ve got two courses of action: try to outsmart them, or try to blow ’em out of the sky. Neither way’s going to be easy.”
“There’s another option,” the president says. “We listen to the Mogadorians. We play along—at least for now. If they start killing more civilians, what other choice do we have?”
“You’re talking surrender?” Lawson asks, narrowing his eyes. I shift on my feet as he continues. “I’d rather see humanity’s extinction before we become slaves. There’s the possibility that employing some more extreme measure might—”
“I’m not authorizing a nuclear attack on American soil,” the president says. “Even if it did manage to take down one of those ships, the fallout would be catastrophic, and the enemy would likely immediately open fire on the other cities.”
“Oh, I agree,” Lawson says. “Besides, we’ll let some other country with an itchy trigger finger test out nukes first. What I suggest is sending out a few small teams in New York. Quietly take some of their smaller ships and soldiers hostage. See what we can figure out or reverse engineer. We should also start interrogating the MogPro traitors who were arrested. Aggressively.”
Jackson nods, then points to one of the monitors playing Sarah’s PSA.
“And this ‘Garde’? John Smith. Have we found him?”
“They’re illegal aliens who might have just started an interplanetary war on American soil,” a woman with a severe blond bun says. “Ra was talking about peace before they attacked him.”
I squint, trying to place the woman, trying to imagine how the Garde might be blamed for this. But then, these people don’t know the Loric like I do.
“That was before he turned into a monster on live television,” someone else says. Then everyone’s talking again.
“They’re aliens. What do you expect them to look like?”
“Why don’t you tell the people of Manhattan that they came in peace?”
“We’ve got troops looking for him in New York right now.” Lawson stands and begins to walk around the table. “Frankly, sir, despite what your FBI informants say, I wouldn’t put much faith in any of these extraterrestrials. We know nothing about them other than what this anonymous video says. The enemy of our enemy is not always a friend. Who’s to say this John Smith isn’t worse than Ra?”
“He’s not,” I say, stepping forward. Everyone turns to look at me. “He’s—they are our only hope of defeating the Mogadorians.”
Richards puts a hand on my shoulder and pulls me back, but the president beckons me forward.
“Malcolm Goode, isn’t it?” the general asks, drawing out each syllable. “Welcome. You know, I did some research into you when I heard the president sent for you. Seems that many of your theories and ideas were discredited by your colleagues back when you were a professor. In fact, they cost you your job, didn’t they? Before you were abducted by aliens.” He pauses. I know why. Even when proof of extrater
restrial life is falling out of the sky around us, saying you were abducted still sounds crazy to most people. He goes on. “How are we supposed to be sure that you’re not just a nut job who’s going to tell us next that Bigfoot runs the illuminati?”
“With all due respect, General,” I say, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks—a mixture of anger and embarrassment, “I know more about what’s happening around the world right now than anyone else in this room.”
“If the Mogadorians did have you all those years, couldn’t you be a spy?”
Richards speaks up from behind me. “Major Briggs reports that the hostiles did try very hard to kill him.”
“Not hard enough, I see,” Lawson says with a hint of a smile.
“All right, General, that’s enough,” Jackson says. “Dr. Goode, I understand that it wasn’t easy for you to get here. Thank you for coming. I’ve been briefed on your work regarding intergalactic communication and found it quite interesting. Brilliant even, though I admit some of it was difficult to wrap my head around. What can you tell us about what’s going on?”
I take a deep breath.
“Well . . . this has all been in motion for over a decade. Longer, actually. And that’s just taking Earth’s role into account.”
I tell them everything—or at least the highlights—as quickly as I can. My imprisonment. Paradise. Chicago. The Mog encampment in West Virginia. There’s no use in hiding anything now. A few of the people at the table snicker or roll their eyes when I tell them about the piken or the powers that the Garde have. Even though they’ve seen John in action on TV, trying to describe Six’s ability to create storms seems like a stretch. But they fall silent when I start talking about how we discovered that the Mogs and the government were working together. Through it all, the president and Lawson both stare at me, not betraying a single emotion.
“And now I’m here,” I say finally.
The room is deathly silent for a few seconds. I almost regret not bringing Gamera with me. It’d make a hell of an ending to toss him onto the table and watch everyone’s mouths drop open in shock as he morphed. Of course, it’s likely this might be interpreted as an attack on the president, which would probably end with both me and Gamera dead.
“We’ll need to retake the base in Dulce,” Jackson finally says. “I want to know what the hell happened there and why we didn’t know about it. See if we can track down this FBI squad that was combing the archives in Ashwood too. Offer them whatever they need to protect the information they gathered from the Mog base and find out if they have any leads on how to take down those warship shields. Maybe there’s something in those archives. And someone figure out where the hell this place in West Virginia is.”
“Mr. President,” Lawson says. “This story is all well and good, but we’re talking about a handful of teenagers up against their entire army. Do you really want to trust a sixteen-year-old boy with the fate of the country?”
One of the aides whispers into the ear of the woman with the severe bun.
“It seems like this John Smith is polling well with the nation. They love him. At least based on this PSA.”
“These kids sound like ticking time bombs at best,” a man at the table sneers. “I for one don’t want to sit in a room with a pubescent kid who could pull my head off with one thought.”
Lawson grins. “I bet our enemies feel the same way.”
“Like it or not,” I say, “the Garde are your best chance at defeating the Mogadorians without launching a full-scale war.”
“If they want to fight, they should be fighting under our command.”
“No offense, General, but the government doesn’t have a great track record when it comes to the Loric.”
“We’re talking about less than a dozen Garde and their allies, right?” Jackson asks. He turns to an aide. “Prepare a video conference with our people in the Brooklyn evacuation zone. I want those Garde found. I want to talk to John Smith. Then we’ll figure out where to go from there.”
One of Jackson’s aides gasps and runs to his side, sliding a tablet in front of him and whispering something I can’t hear. His eyes go wide.
“Mr. President . . . ,” I start.
He raises his hand. “I’ve got military operations to coordinate and a terrified nation to run. I’ll be in touch when we have further questions.”
And just like that, Richards is pulling me into the hallway.
“But, sir . . . ,” I say, but everyone in the room has already turned their attention to one of the monitors on the wall, where the aide is bringing up some sort of video.
The last thing I see before the war room doors close behind me is Setrákus Ra’s black eyes on the screen.
CHAPTER TEN
NEITHER RICHARDS NOR I TALK ON THE WAY back to my room. That’s fine by me. I’m too busy wondering what Ra’s demands are and going over all the ways I should have reframed my arguments in the war room, how I could have helped Sam and the Loric more.
When we get back, Briggs is standing outside my door, leaning on a crutch.
“Major Briggs here has been assigned to guard you,” Richards says.
“You mean watch me,” I say.
Briggs doesn’t meet my eye.
“It’s standard procedure,” Richards says. “Guests are always assigned an escort. It’s for your own safety.”
“You know, I can be of use to you,” I continue. “Get me data to go through. A computer. Hell, I’m just staring at the walls in there. It’s a cell. Even prisoners have access to libraries.”
“This is temporary,” Richards say. He frowns. “Look, we’re all just trying to follow protocol as best we can. The sheer amount of decisions to be made here . . .” He shakes his head. “I’ll be back later. I’m sure the president will want to speak with you after everyone’s had time to digest what you explained at the briefing.”
“Can you at least tell me if they find the Garde?”
“You’ll be informed of any declassified information deemed relevant to your situation. Now if you’ll—”
I go into my room and slam the door behind me. Immediately I feel stupid, like a child stomping off to his bedroom because his parents made him angry. But I am angry. That I haven’t heard from Sam. That I’m being treated like a prisoner. That despite everything we’ve done to try to protect Earth, the Garde are still being thought of as possible enemies.
I lie on the bed and seethe, trying to calm down. I start to count backwards from one hundred, something I used to do when the Mogs had me conscious—anything to take my mind off the horrible things that were likely to come. Somewhere in the fifties I pass out again, my body desperately trying to make up for all the lost sleep of the last few days.
After a few hours of dreamless napping, my phone rings. I am immediately fully awake, bolting into the bathroom and turning the taps on again.
I don’t recognize the number.
“Hello?” I answer, holding my breath as I wait to hear who’s on the other end of the line.
“Hey, Dad,” Sam says. “I was afraid you wouldn’t answer.”
Despite everything that’s happening, the moment I hear his voice everything is right in the world. Relief washes over me, and for a fleeting moment I think I might break down. I lean my back against the wall and sink to the ground.
“I’m here, son. Where are you? What’s going on? Are you safe?”
I manage to close my mouth before another thousand questions come out.
“I’m safe, yeah,” he says. “John and I are in Brooklyn. Once the attack started, we tried to save as many people as we could. Then we were looking for Nine, but Walker’s team found us in the subway and brought us to a temporary camp. I can’t tell if they’re about to give us medals, try to get us to enlist or arrest us.”
There’s plenty I could say about this, but I can tell there’s something else on his mind in the way his voice lilts as he speaks. Something he’s not telling me. Figuring out what that is seems much
more important than catching him up on what I’ve been through.
“And?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” he says slowly. “At least, I don’t think so. But, Dad . . . are you sitting down?”
“Yeah.”
“Um, I don’t really know how to say this, but . . . I’ve got Legacies now. Or telekinesis at least. There was a piken coming at us, and I just . . . I did it. I pushed him with my thoughts like I was John or Six or Luke Skywalker or something. I’m like a Jedi. I’ve been using it all day.”
Noises come out of my mouth that are nothing more than odd syllables and half-formed vowels. I can’t process what he’s talking about.
My son has powers now? How? Why?
What does this mean?
“Yeah,” Sam says in response to my lack of coherence. “That’s kind of how I felt at first too.”
“But how is that possible?” I finally manage. “Did John transfer his powers to you or . . . ?”
“I don’t think so. He’s as confused by all of it as I am. Oh, and we met someone else in the city. This random girl who had never even heard of the Loric or Mogs until today. She’s got powers too. Dad . . . what if there are others out there? Like, what if humans across the planet started getting Legacies?”
The implications are extraordinary—especially in terms of protecting Earth. What force has the ability to grant abilities like this? Maybe something the others found in the Sanctuary? Are Adam and the others okay?
“Dad? You there?”
“Yes, just . . . trying to make sense of this,” I say, my mind still reeling. A smile creeps across my face as I realize that if Sam has this power, he’ll be better able to protect himself now. “Let’s take this one step at a time. What’s your next move?”
“Um, I’m not sure. John’s talking to Walker. Nine and Five are somewhere around here fighting. I’ll keep you updated. What about you?”
I give him a rundown on what happened after he left. Mostly he responds with “What?!” and variations of “Oh crap!” I tell him that this morning I spoke to the president.