“What about when I can’t see the person or we’re separated by a long distance? How do you do that?”
“Did you ever . . .” Ella pauses, struggling to put her thoughts into words. “Say you’re in a house and you know someone’s in another room. You kind of know, instinctually, how loud you need to yell to make them hear you, right?”
“I guess.”
“Think of it like that,” Ella says. “The better you know the person, the more familiar their mind is to you, the longer your range with them will grow. You’ll figure it out with practice. Sometimes it feels more natural than regular talking. At least to me.”
I’m not sure what else to say. I got what I wanted and more than I bargained for. I pick the atlas up from the table and tuck it under my arm.
“Thank you, Ella,” I say, hoping it doesn’t sound too cold, not sure if I could muster anything warmer.
“You’re welcome.”
I glance out the window. The sun is starting to get low in the sky, the light turning a muted gray.
What Legacies do I still need?
Five’s Externa and Adam’s seismic Legacy would be good; Eight’s teleportation would be incredible. If I had the time, maybe I could meditate on when I used the Loralite stones before, try to remember that feeling and figure out a way to reproduce it using my Ximic.
If I had the time. It’s already getting late.
I head back towards the elevator. Back down into the depths of Patience Creek.
Invisibility. Flight. Telepathy.
These are the tools I’ve got.
They’re enough.
Enough to take on a warship.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE WAITING HAS TO BE THE WORST PART.
The sun has set, not that you’d be able to tell down here in our latest subterranean hideout. Patience Creek still buzzes with activity; soldiers working on logistics and training against observed Mog tactics, researchers along with Sam and Malcolm trying to puzzle out the cloaking device, officers coordinating a worldwide war effort. Adam’s offered all the input he can and is now downstairs, helping to monitor the Mog communications.
Right now none of that involves me.
“Nine’s penthouse, that was really the best,” I say, pulling my hair back while I stare at an off-white wall. “I don’t think I really appreciated how great those windows were.”
Marina laughs softly. She sits across the table from me in one of Patience Creek’s small lounges. There’s a half-eaten microwave burrito, now cold, between us. The food selection here is really lacking, and neither of us has much of an appetite.
Marina smiles at me. “You remember that dinner we had before we went off to Florida? All of us together?”
“Yeah. Right before everything went to hell.”
“That was a good night,” Marina says with a quiet laugh. “We should’ve, I don’t know, taken pictures or something. Like normal people would’ve done.”
Marina’s smile slowly fades. I can tell that she’s thinking about Eight. I try to lighten the mood. “God, I remember being grossed out by that penthouse because it was Nine’s and he used to strut around with his shirt off like he was some hot-shit playboy. In retrospect, Nine overcompensating sure beats out an abandoned Mog Stepford community and this grungy basement.”
Marina laughs again. She reaches across the table and puts her hand on top of mine. I cross my eyes at her. I feel tired and wrung out—maybe that’s why I’m getting a little punchy and reminiscing.
“Six,” Marina says softly. “Can I just tell you . . . I never made many friends before, while I was staying in the monastery. It was lonely.”
“Okay?”
“And then you came along. You . . .” I make a face as Marina’s eyes get watery. “You’ve been there for me in the worst times, Six. You always made me laugh or propped me up. Sometimes you literally carried me. I just wanted to tell you that you’re pretty much my best friend.”
I blow a stray curl of hair out of my face. “Oh, goddamn, Marina, don’t start talking like that. It’s bad luck.”
Marina chuckles. “It needed to be said.”
“Yeah, no it didn’t,” I reply, squeezing her hand. “But back at you anyway.”
Someone clears their throat, and both of us turn towards the doorway. John stands there, a heavy, leather-bound atlas with yellowed pages tucked under his arm. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his shoulders are slumped. I don’t really know how else to expect him to look after what’s gone down recently.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey yourself,” I reply. “Where you been?”
John looks longingly at a free chair by our table. Something in him won’t let him relax, not even for a few minutes.
“Working some stuff out,” he says. “I’m going to see Lawson. Wouldn’t mind some backup.”
I exchange a look with Marina, and we both stand up. “Sure,” I say. “You just going to socialize or . . . ?”
“We’ve wasted enough time here,” John answers quickly. “We need to start making moves.”
I nod in agreement, and the three of us exit the lounge and start navigating the endless hallways.
“Should we gather up the others?” Marina asks.
“I don’t want to disturb Sam and Malcolm while they’re working,” John replies. “Nine isn’t the most diplomatic, and Adam probably wouldn’t be welcome in this context.”
“What about Ella?”
John’s mouth tightens. “She doesn’t need to be here for this.”
There’s an edge in John’s tone. “You guys have your talk?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“Can we just leave it alone, Six?”
I shoot Marina a look. She subtly shakes her head, as if to tell me that I should drop the matter. I take her advice, and we walk on in silence.
Lawson has set up his office in a part of the complex referred to as the nerve center. We pass by rooms filled with communications officers coordinating with other governments around the world. It’s noisy; there are about a dozen languages being spoken. Around the world, the Mog warships still haven’t attacked. They haven’t even moved, except for the Anubis taking Setrákus Ra to West Virginia and the ship we lured to Niagara Falls. From the urgency down here, it’s clear the humans are utilizing every second of this lull to prepare.
The twins, Caleb and Christian, stand guard before a closed door at the end of the hall. Marina hasn’t had a chance to meet these two weirdos yet. As we arrive, she puts on her gentlest smile and extends her hand to the blank-faced one that I think is Christian.
“Hi, I’m Marina,” she says. “I’ve heard you received Legacies. Quite amazing for it to happen to both of you. If you’d like to talk about it—”
Christian just stares at her and makes no move to take her hand, like he doesn’t even understand what she’s saying. Caleb quickly interjects himself. He shakes Marina’s hand loosely, like it’s covered in germs.
“Uh, we’re good, thanks,” he says brusquely, then looks at John. “General Lawson sent for you hours ago.”
“I haven’t had a lot of free time,” John replies. “Is he in or what?”
Caleb steps aside with a grunt, and a moment later Christian does, too, maintaining his cold stare the entire time. As we follow John into Lawson’s office, Marina gives me a look.
“What’s with them?” she whispers.
“No idea,” I reply. “I guess not everyone who got Legacies is as charming as Sam.”
Marina smirks at me. We fall silent as we look around Lawson’s office. It’s a pretty ordinary setup, a beat-up desk where Lawson sits in a lumbar-support chair, a few folding chairs positioned in front of that, a little table against one wall with a drip machine currently brewing a fresh pot from freeze-dried, army-issued coffee crystals.
What really catches my attention, the reason why I’m sure Lawson moved down here, is the bank of monitors that cover t
he wall behind his desk. The screens feature all kinds of things; some show grainy footage of warships that must come direct from cameras in the occupied cities, others are tuned to the few news networks still able to broadcast and some are set to security footage of Patience Creek itself.
Lawson turns away from this array of information as soon as we enter. He stands up, brushes a hand down the front of his uniform and smiles congenially.
“Ah, hello there,” he says, taking in the three of us. All our looks are varying degrees of confrontational, so he first addresses Marina. “I’m glad to see you up and around, young lady.”
“Thank you,” she replies.
“I’ve heard nothing but good things about you,” Lawson continues.
“What . . . what have you heard?” Marina raises an eyebrow.
“I heard you’re a healer, which, if you ask me, is about the most blessed power you folks can develop.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “I also heard from some of my boys that you’re a real badass with an icicle.”
Marina reddens at this reference to her confrontation with Five. Before anything else is said, John jumps in.
“You wanted to see me.”
Lawson nods and retakes his seat, motioning for us to sit in the folding chairs arranged in front of his desk. We all remain standing.
“Yes, I did want to speak with you,” Lawson says to John, then points at me. “I wanted to know why Six here and some of your other associates were leaving the base. Now that she’s back and brought some LANEs with her, I don’t feel all that concerned.”
“You never needed to be concerned,” I say.
“Yes, well, I worry,” Lawson says to me, playing up that folksy-grandfather vibe. He turns his attention back to John. “Maybe we got off on the wrong foot earlier. I realize your group isn’t used to working with others. And you should realize that it’s a strange experience for my people as well. I don’t want you to feel that I’m threatening your autonomy—I doubt I could do that even if I wanted. But we are fighting towards a common goal here. It would be ideal if we knew what each other was doing.”
“I agree,” John says, though it sounds like he mostly wants the old man to stop talking.
Lawson runs a hand over his silver hair, his attention back on me. “For instance, your operation in Niagara Falls caused the warship that was located in Toronto to move down there. It’s the first movement we’ve seen out of the hostiles since Setrákus Ra went quiet. Caused quite a stir that could’ve been avoided if you’d been open with me.”
“Nobody fired off any nukes, though, right?” I ask. “No harm done.”
“Not this time, no,” Lawson replies through his teeth. “The Canadians had units stationed around that warship that’ll need to be repositioned in Niagara Falls, which is a pain in the ass. On the other hand, a major population center that hadn’t been fully evacuated is out of the crosshairs, at least for now. If that happened somewhere else in the world, though? Where our allies weren’t so disciplined? Could’ve created some difficulties.”
“It won’t happen again,” John says, with his agreement undercut by his dismissive tone. He sets the atlas he’s been carrying down on top of Lawson’s desk. “I’ve marked locations of the Loralite stones in here.”
Lawson smiles and puts a hand on top of the atlas. “Ah, low-tech. I like it.”
“We really need these sites secured before the Mogs can sniff them out,” John continues. “Especially if you want to use them to transport the cloaking devices.”
“I’ll make sure that happens.” Lawson pats the atlas. “And I’ll keep it on a need-to-know basis. No leaks.”
“You might get some more human Garde teleporting in, too,” I add. “Make sure nobody screws with them. Mog or human.”
Lawson strokes his chin, clean shaven, even at a time like this. “You think we plan to hurt these gifted young people?” he asks, sounding mildly affronted.
We all speak at once.
“Perhaps not hurt . . . ,” Marina begins diplomatically.
“Enlist them,” John says.
“Exploit them,” I throw in.
“We just don’t want anyone forced to do anything they aren’t prepared for,” Marina concludes.
Lawson stares at us for a moment. He glances at the door, making sure that it’s shut, probably so the twins outside won’t overhear what he’s about to say.
“Look, I’ll be straight with you,” he says. “There are going to be elements in our government, hell, in nations all around the world, who are going to see these young people you’ve gifted as . . . assets. You saw what happened with MogPro. Dangle a little extraterrestrial power in front of these folks and they’ll sell their souls, invasion be damned.”
“And you’re not one of those people?” John asks.
“No, son, I am not,” Lawson replies. “I’m an old man who was happy playing golf a few weeks ago. I’m not interested in profit or power. I’m interested in keeping this world safe. I believe you folks can be a force for good. I’ve seen all the footage: the healing, the self-sacrifice. I’ve also met that one-eyed fellow you’ve got down in the basement. We don’t want any more of those, do we?”
I glance in Marina’s direction. “No, we definitely do not.”
“I’m all about keeping the world safe. Training your people, putting them in positions where they can use their gifts for the greater good.” John’s about to say something, but Lawson holds up a hand. “These are all just words if we don’t win this war, and considering your past experiences with government organizations, I’d think you were fools if you didn’t distrust me. But when all this is over, I want you to be involved. I want you to tell me what’s best for these young people, for our planet. And I’ll want your help making that happen.”
The three of us exchange looks. If Lawson’s playing us, he’s doing a real good job of it. But judging by John’s distant expression, I’m not sure all his concerns have been put to rest. Or maybe, like me, he’s realizing how pointless it is to argue about the future in the face of certain death.
I clear my throat and change the subject. “So, about those cloaking devices.”
“Still no progress from my R&D on engineering our own version,” Lawson replies, relieved to be back on mission.
“That’s all right,” John says. “We’re ready to steal you some. That warship that the human Garde lured to Niagara Falls is a perfect target. Isolated, distracted, overextended.”
“YouTube stupidity occasionally pays off,” I add.
“I’m going to take a small team and slip on board, steal the devices,” John continues. “Ready to go with that as soon as possible.”
Lawson nods. “Excellent. I’ll want to have a team of my own in place nearby, just in case things go haywire and you need extraction.”
“I don’t have a problem with that, so long as they aren’t spotted,” John replies.
Marina’s been quiet for a while. She stares at one of the news channels, watching footage from London. Thousands of people are marching through the streets, evacuating with only the possessions they can carry, while a warship looms in the background.
“What’s being done to protect the people in the cities with warships?” she asks. “The Mogadorians will inevitably press their attack. . . .”
“All but a few cities have an evacuation in progress,” Lawson replies. “Last I checked, most of them were at about eighty percent relocation. This extra day really bought us some ti—”
Lawson is interrupted by a hurried knock on the door. Before he can answer, an FBI agent with a thick five-o’clock shadow enters, even though the twins try to block him. I recognize him as Noto, the guy Adam is teaching how to speak Mogadorian way down in the sub-subbasement.
“Excuse me, sir,” he says to Lawson before he turns his attention to John. “You should probably come down to our monitoring station. Something’s happening.”
That can’t be good.
The three of
us, plus Lawson, the twins and Noto, hustle down to where Adam is monitoring the Mogadorian transmissions. On the way, Noto brings us up to speed as best he can.
“The Mog warship captains were going back and forth like they’ve been all day, especially since the one disobeyed orders and moved his ship to Niagara Falls,” Noto explains hurriedly. “Just now, a new voice came on—”
“Setrákus Ra?” I ask.
“No, a woman,” Noto replies. “She’s been giving a speech, putting everybody in their place by the sounds of it. Adam looks . . .”
He looks pissed, that much is obvious as soon as we enter the room. Adam sits on the edge of his chair, hands clasped tightly in front of him, his dark eyes glaring at the Skimmer console. Of course I recognize the voice that’s got Adam looking so murderous.
“Phiri Dun-Ra,” I say.
“Who?” John asks, turning to me as we all crowd around Adam.
“A most unpleasant person, even in terms of Mogadorians,” Marina says.
“She’s the bitch who was in charge of breaking into the Sanctuary,” I tell John. “We had some run-ins.”
“She almost killed me and Dust,” Adam says quietly, not taking his eyes off the console, listening to Phiri’s every harsh-sounding word.
“Last I saw her, she was dragging Setrákus Ra onto the Anubis,” I say.
General Lawson clears his throat. “Son, what’s she saying?”
Adam takes a deep breath and lets it hiss through his teeth. “She’s putting the fear into the trueborn captains, taking them to task for doubting their Leader. She says the delay in the attack is inconsequential, as humanity is weak and a Mogadorian victory is all but assured.”
Lawson stiffens at that.
“Did she mention that I impaled their Beloved Leader?” I ask.
“Of course not,” Adam grumbles. “She claims Setrákus Ra has been busy finishing his life’s work of elevating the Mogadorian race. She says that what he’s accomplished is nothing short of a miracle and that the faithful will be rewarded. The doubters? She says there’s nothing in store for them but pain beyond belief.”