I try to digest all this information and compare it with what I learned from Crayton and his letter.
‘You just wanted to be in control,’ I say after a moment.
‘I wanted progress,’ he counters. ‘The Mogadorians understood. Unlike the Loric, they were a people ready to be elevated.’
‘You’re insane,’ I say, pushing my plate away, done with this whole question-and-answer thing.
‘You are an unenlightened child,’ he replies, that condescending patience back. ‘When your studies begin, when you see what I have accomplished for you and what the Loric have denied you, then you will understand. You will come to love and respect me.’
I stand up, even though I have nowhere to go. Setrákus Ra has been gentle with me so far, but it’s been made crystal clear that I can only move around the sterile hallways of the Anubis as he allows it. If he wants to keep me here and force me to finish my dinner, he will. It would probably be smoother for me if I let all his distortions and half-truths go unchallenged, but I just can’t do it. I think of Nine, Six and the others – I know they’d never hold their tongue when faced with this monster.
‘You destroyed our planet and all you’ve ever accomplished is hurting people,’ I say, trying to mimic my grandfather’s mocking patience. ‘You’re a monster. I will never not hate you.’
Setrákus Ra sighs, his handsome features creasing briefly in consternation.
‘Anger is the last refuge of the ignorant,’ he says, holding up his hand. ‘Let me show you something they denied you, granddaughter.’
A coil of bright red energy begins to swirl around his raised hand. Nervous, I take a step backwards.
‘The Elders chose who would escape from Lorien, and you were not meant to be among them,’ Setrákus Ra continues. ‘You were denied the advantages of the other Garde. I will rectify that.’
The energy coalesces into a crackling orb in front of Setrákus Ra’s hand, hovers there for a moment, and then zips towards me. I dive to the side and the orb alters course, making a beeline for me like it has a mind of its own. I hit the cold floor in a roll and try to avoid the energy, but it’s too fast. It burns through the hem of my dress and attaches to my ankle.
I scream. The pain is excruciating; it’s as if a live wire is being dragged across my skin. I pull my leg in towards me and try to slap at the spot where the orb hit, like I’m on fire and need to pat out the flames.
That’s when I first see it. The twisting red energy is gone, leaving behind a band of jagged, pink scar tissue around my ankle. It’s reminiscent of the angular tattoos I’ve seen etched on dozens of Mogadorian skulls, but there’s also something unsettlingly familiar about it.
It’s a scar very similar to the ones the Garde have signifying the Loric charm.
When I look up at Setrákus Ra, I have to bite my lip to choke off a scream. The bottom half of his pant leg has burned away, an identical charm freshly branded into his own ankle.
‘Now,’ he says, smiling beatifically, ‘just like them, we are linked.’
6
I guess in a way we’ve kidnapped Dale. He doesn’t seem to mind. The scrawny redneck is having a grand old time lounging at the rear of his decades-old pontoon boat, pulling from his flask of moonshine, and brazenly ogling me and Marina. This boat of his is literally held together in places by duct tape and shoelaces, and we can’t travel through the winding swampland streams too quickly for fear of overheating the engine. Also, every so often, Nine has to use a bucket to scoop dark brown swamp water out of the boat before the foot wells collect too much and we sink. Not exactly traveling in style, but Marina remains convinced that Dale stumbled on a Mogadorian encampment. So, for now, he’s our guide.
Last night, Dale insisted it was too dark to try navigating the swamp but promised he would lead us to this decommissioned NASA base in the morning. It turned out that the bartender at Trapper’s rented the shanties surrounding his place to any swamp people passing through. He gave one to us for next to nothing, floated us our meal, too, probably sensing that not helping us would just create more trouble.
No one trusted Dale not to run off at his first opportunity, so we decided to take turns keeping watch on him. Nine drew first shift and ended up sitting with Dale outside our little shack, listening to stories about all the interesting things Dale had scavenged from the swamp.
Marina and I lay down side by side on the flea-bitten mattress tossed on the floor of the shack, the only other furnishings a hot plate, a rusted-out sink that I don’t think connected to any pipes, and an oil lantern. Considering we’d spent the last couple of days hiking through the swamps and barely resting, this was about the most comfortable I’d been in days. As we lay there, I noticed that Marina had stopped radiating the aura of cold she’d been giving off since Eight was killed. I thought maybe she’d fallen asleep, but then she started whispering to me in the darkness.
‘I feel him out there, Six.’
‘What do you mean?’ I whispered back, not understanding. ‘Eight is …’ I hesitated, not able to bring myself to state the obvious.
‘I know he’s dead,’ she replied, rolling over to face me. ‘But I can still feel his – I don’t know, his essence or something. He’s calling to me. I don’t know why, or how, I just know it’s happening and that it’s important.’
I fell silent. I remembered Eight’s story about meeting a mysterious old man while hiding out in India. I think his name was Devdan. The old guy taught him about Hinduism and martial arts and, eventually, disappeared back to wherever he came from. Eight really cherished what he learned about Hinduism – I think it helped him cope with his Cêpan’s death. Hell, maybe there’s something to all that reincarnation stuff. Eight was definitely the spiritual one of us, and if anyone would call out from beyond the grave, it’d probably be him.
‘We’ll find him,’ I said quietly, although I wasn’t exactly confident that would be true. I thought about what Nine said during his freak-out earlier that night – that we’d already lost the war and no one had told us. ‘I just don’t know what we’re going to do afterward.’
‘It will reveal itself to us when the time comes,’ Marina replied peacefully, squeezing my hand, the nurturing Marina I’d gotten to know briefly resurfacing, replacing the angry revenge seeker I’d been surviving with the last couple of days. ‘I know it will.’
So, this morning, we returned to the swamp. The trees are thick on both sides of the murky water and we frequently have to slow down to navigate around gnarled but ambitious roots that have spread into the water. The canopy of branches over our heads is dense, letting sunlight through in patches. Rotten logs drift by, their bark not always distinguishable from the craggy scales of the alligators roaming these waters. At least the bugs have stopped biting me. Or maybe I’ve just gotten used to them.
Marina stands at the front of the boat, her gaze straight ahead, moisture from the air dampening her face and hair. I stare at her back, wondering if she’s lost it, or if this sixth sense about Eight’s body is another new Legacy manifesting. It’s at times like these we could really use a Cêpan; Marina’s having a hell of a time controlling her freezing Legacy. Nine and I haven’t brought it up with her – he’s probably scared she’ll bite his head off, and I’m just counting on her learning to control it at the same time she gets a grip on all that anger. So either this return to the swamp is happening because of a potentially haywire new Legacy, old-fashioned intuition, grief or legitimate contact with the spirit world. Maybe a combination of all four.
It doesn’t matter, really. We’re doing this.
It was only a few days ago that Five led us through waters similar to these. We’d been happier then – I remember Marina and Eight clinging to each other, something sparking there, and Nine whooping and acting stupid every time he spotted an alligator. I run a hand through my hair – it’s damp from the humidity and knotted from the days spent out here – and remind myself that this is no time for reminiscing. We?
??re heading into danger, but at least this time we know it.
‘How much farther?’ I ask Dale.
He shrugs. He’s gotten a lot more comfortable around us since Marina half-froze his face last night. Probably on account of whatever’s in that flask.
‘’Bout an hour,’ he says.
‘You better not be screwing with us,’ I tell him. ‘If this is bullshit, we’ll leave you out here.’
That makes him sit up a little straighter. ‘I swear it’s true, ma’am. I saw some weird-ass aliens out here. You bet.’
I glare at him. Nine, finished dumping water over the side of the boat, snatches the flask from Dale’s hand.
‘What’ve you got in here, anyway?’ Nine asks, sniffing at the flask. ‘Smells like paint thinner.’
‘I mean, it ain’t all paint thinner,’ Dale counters. ‘Try some.’
Nine rolls his eyes and hands him back the flask, then turns to me.
‘Seriously?’ he asks, lowering his voice, more concerned that Marina will overhear than Dale, who’s sitting right next to us. ‘We’re relying on this guy?’
‘Not just him,’ I reply, shooting a look at Marina. ‘She senses something.’
‘Since when does she …?’ Nine trails off, for once taking a moment to consider his words. ‘It still seems a little nuts to me, Six. That’s all.’
Before I can respond, Marina waves her hand at us, getting our attention.
‘Cut the engine!’ she hisses.
Dales snaps to and turns off the engine, still not wanting to piss off Marina. Our boat drifts forward silently.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘There’s someone up ahead.’
I hear it then, too. A motor – one that does a lot less hiccupping than Dale’s – getting louder as it moves increasingly closer. With the zigzag pattern this tributary takes through the trees, we can’t yet see this other boat.
‘Are there other dirtbag swamp people out this far?’ Nine asks, eyeballing Dale.
‘Sometimes,’ Dale replies. He looks around at us, as if something has just occurred to him. ‘Now, hold on. Are we in danger? Because I didn’t sign up for that.’
‘You didn’t sign up for anything,’ Nine reminds him.
‘Hush,’ Marina snaps. ‘Here they come.’
I could turn us invisible. It occurs to me to grab hold of Marina and Nine, use my Legacy and make it look like Dale’s alone out here. But I don’t. Marina and Nine don’t look like they’re in any mood to hold hands either.
If there are Mogadorians out there, we want this fight.
I watch a dark outline pass through the clutter of trees and glide into the water in front of us. It’s a pontoon boat just like ours except much sleeker and probably with a few dozen less leaks. As soon as we come into view, the second boat also cuts its engine. It drifts about thirty yards in front of us, its wake causing us to bob on a gentle wave.
The boat is manned by three Mogadorians. Because of the heat, they’ve removed their stupid black leather trench coats and stripped down to tank tops, their arms shining pasty white, their blasters and daggers clearly visible along their belts. I wonder what they’re doing out here, brazenly out in the open, and then realize that they’re probably looking for us. After all, the swamps are our last known location. These unlucky Mog scouts must’ve drawn swamp duty.
Everyone is very still. We stare at the Mogs, and I wonder if they’ll even recognize us in the state we’re in. The Mogs stare back, not making any move to restart their boat and get out of our way.
‘Friends of yours?’ Dale slurs.
His voice breaks the standoff. In unison, two of the Mogs reach for their blasters, the third spinning around to restart their engine. I shove forward with my telekinesis, hitting the front of their boat with as much force as I can muster, causing the ship’s bow to rise up from the water. The Mog going for the engine falls overboard, and the other two go staggering backwards.
A split second after my telekinetic attack, Marina leans over the side and plunges her hand into the swamp water. A sheet of ice spreads out from her towards the Mogs’ boat, the water cracking and popping as it flash freezes. Their boat is stuck on a tilt, half out of the water, as the ice floe coalesces around it.
Nine bounds out of our boat, gracefully runs across Marina’s ice floe and hurdles over the side of the Mogs’ boat. He grabs the nearest Mog around the neck, his momentum and the boat’s sloped deck causing them to stumble towards the boat’s rear. The second Mog gets his blaster up and aims at Nine, but before he can fire, Nine plants his feet and tosses the first Mog at his buddy.
The scout who fell overboard tries to climb out of the water and onto Marina’s patch of ice. That’s a mistake. A jagged icicle rises from the floe’s edge, impaling the Mogadorian. Before that Mog has even turned to ash, I use my telekinesis to tear the icicle through him and send it plunging into one of the Mogs on the boat. The final Mog, dagger drawn, charges at Nine, but he grabs the Mog by the wrist, twists backwards and stabs him through the eye with his own blade.
Just like that, it’s over. The whole fight lasted less than a minute. Even as dysfunctional as we seem right now, we can still kill the hell out of some Mogs.
‘Now that was refreshing!’ Nine yells, grinning at me from the other boat.
I hear splashing from over my shoulder and turn around just in time to see Dale swimming frantically through the swamp water. He must have jumped overboard, and now he’s dog-paddling away from us as fast as his scrawny arms and drunkenness will allow.
‘Where are you going, idiot?’ I shout after him.
Dale reaches a muddy outcropping of roots and pulls himself on to it, gasping for breath. He stares at me and the others with wide, wild eyes.
‘You people are freaks!’ he screams.
‘That’s not very nice,’ Nine says, laughing, as he carefully makes his way back on to Dale’s boat, the ice floe Marina created already beginning to melt in the Florida heat.
‘What about your boat?’ I shout to Dale. ‘You gonna swim back to Trapper’s?’
He squints at me. ‘I’ll figure something out that don’t involve mutant powers, thank you very much.’
I sigh and raise my hand, intending to telekinetically drag Dale’s stupid ass back on to his boat, but Marina touches my shoulder and stops me.
‘Let him go,’ she says.
‘But we need him to find the base,’ I reply.
‘We’re close enough,’ Marina says, shaking her head. ‘And besides –’
‘Uh, holy shit,’ Nine interrupts, shielding his eyes and staring up at the sky.
‘I think we can just follow that thing,’ Marina finishes.
The day suddenly gets very dark. I look up as a shadow passes overhead, cutting off the limited light that was squeezing through the swamp’s canopy. Through the leaves, all I can see is the armor-plated hide of a Mogadorian ship as it begins to descend. It’s nothing like the dinky saucer-style crafts that I was able to knock out of the sky with a few well-placed lightning bolts. This ship is enormous, the size of an aircraft carrier, ferocious gun turrets protruding from its belly. The local birds squawk and take flight, darting away from this terrifying giant.
Instinctively, I reach out and grab Nine and Marina, turning the three of us invisible. A boat of Mogadorians is one thing. I don’t think we’re ready for something this big. The warship above us doesn’t care, though. It doesn’t notice us. To a ship that size, we’re as insignificant as the mosquitoes. As it passes, gliding above the swampland and gradually allowing light to re-enter, I feel like I’ve shrunk, like I’m small again.
Like I’m a child.
And then I remember that last day on Lorien. The nine of us and our Cêpans running for the ship that would take us to Earth. The screams all around us, the heat of fire from the city, blaster fire hissing through the air. I remember looking up into the night sky and seeing ships just like the one passing over us, blotting out the stars, the
ir turrets blazing, their cargo doors falling open to let loose hordes of blood-hungry Piken. Above us, I realize, is a Mogadorian warship. It’s what they will use to take Earth once and for all.
‘They’re here,’ I say, the breath nearly sucked out of me. ‘It’s starting.’
7
Gradually, the suburbs outside Washington, D.C. start to change. The houses become bigger and farther apart, until eventually they aren’t visible from the road at all. Outside the van windows are immaculately maintained meadows or miniature parks where the trees are spaced at obsessively equal intervals, designed to keep the houses behind them hidden from prying eyes. The side streets branching off from the main road all have prestigious-sounding names like Oaken Crest Way or Goldtree Boulevard, all of them protected by severe PRIVATE PROPERTY signs.
In the backseat, Sam whistles. ‘I can’t believe they live out here. Like rich people.’
‘No kidding,’ I reply, my hands sweating on the steering wheel. I was thinking the same thing as Sam but don’t really feel like talking about it, worried that I won’t be able to keep the jealousy out of my voice. I’ve spent my entire life on the run, dreaming about living in places like this – stable, quiet places. And here are the Mogs, carving out a normal life for their trueborn upper class, living the high life on a planet they’re only looking to exploit and destroy.
‘The grass is always greener,’ Malcolm says.
‘They do not appreciate it, if that’s any consolation,’ Adam says quietly, the first words he’s spoken since we started on these last few miles to Ashwood Estates, his former home. ‘They are taught not to enjoy something unless they can possess it.’
‘What’s that mean, exactly?’ Sam asks. ‘Like, if a Mogadorian went to the park …?’
‘ “One takes no satisfaction from that which one cannot hold,” ’ Adam recites, suppressing a sneer when he finishes the quotation. ‘That is from Setrákus Ra’s Great Book. A Mogadorian wouldn’t care about your park, Sam, not unless the trees were his to chop down.’