CONTENTS

1. Chapter One

2. Chapter Two

3. Chapter Three

4. Chapter Four

5. Chapter Five

6. Chapter Six

7. Chapter Seven

8. Chapter Eight

9. Chapter Nine

10. Chapter Ten

11. Chapter Eleven

12. Excerpt from The Fate of Ten

1. Chapter One

2. Chapter Two

13. Back Ads

14. About the Author

15. Books by Pittacus Lore

16. Copyright

17. About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

ON LORIEN I LIVED IN MY GRANDFATHER’S house on the outskirts of the city, the dormitory of the defense academy, a basement apartment across from Eilon Park—even a Kabarak in the Outer Territories for a few years after my brother died, when I was happy to be lost and disconnected from Capital City and everything it stood for. None of those places exists now that the Mogadorians have destroyed my planet. Now I have only Earth, a world where I am not just a stranger, but one of the last of my people.

I’ve been on this planet almost two years, but I’m not sure it will ever feel like home. It almost did in a rented cabin in upstate New York for a brief period of time a few months ago. Thanks to the Mogs, that home no longer exists either.

It seems like all of my homes are eventually destroyed. Death tends to follow me wherever I go, taking those I care about most. And so I’ve made it a priority to stay alone, away from others.

That’s how I end up buying a secluded piece of land I’ve never set foot on in Alabama.

It’s dusk when I first see the property with my own eyes, parking in front of the huge wrought iron gate that opens up to a tree-lined drive. The name Yellowhammer Ranch is spelled out in rusty letters arching over the top. The gate looks imposing, but it’s mostly ornamental. As a security measure, it’s laughable. There’s not even a lock on it. The fencing on either side is just as bad, consisting of a few strands of barbed wire: a barrier that will keep out nothing but stray animals. I wonder if the former owners actually felt safer because of these crude strings of metal. Possibly, I suppose. But then, they probably never imagined that their enemies would come from the sky instead of the winding dirt road that leads to the ranch.

I know better.

Still, the gate and fence aren’t completely useless. They’ll both come in handy when I install perimeter security cameras. Maybe a few remote-operated weapons too, just in case any Mogadorians manage to find me here.

With a little push, the wrought-iron gate moves, squeaking on old hinges. I get back inside my SUV and drive over the cattle guard. The actual house is located a short drive past the gate and is mostly obscured by rolling hills and trees. It’s all thick beams of wood on the outside. I ignore the carport off to the side and drive onto the grass, straight up to the porch. The lawn is yellowed and rises just above the ankles of my black boots when I step into it. I circle the house once, taking in the area, keeping my eyes peeled for anything that seems out of the ordinary or that might pose especially glaring security problems. There’s nothing around for as far as I can see in any direction other than more barbed wire and empty fields and an old barn out back. I’m alone here. No one to disturb my work. No attachments other than to my mission.

At least if this place goes up in flames too, no one will be hurt but me.

I step over a broken stair at the bottom of the front porch and walk to the wooden door, where there’s a big envelope hung up by a thick strip of clear tape. I pull it down and slide out a small stack of paperwork that proves I’m now the owner of Yellowhammer. None of the documents actually has my name on it—I haven’t given anyone my real name, Lexa, since I discovered that Mogadorians were on Earth hunting down the Loric. Not that it would mean anything to a Mog if he heard it, anyway—I’m not Pittacus or one of the other Elders. But I am careful. Yellowhammer Ranch is technically now owned by a shell corporation I set up, a subsidiary of another organization of my inventing, all of the paperwork looping together in a way that could never be traced back to me.

Lately I’ve started to collect identities. I’ve been dozens of people in the past weeks, sometimes in real life and sometimes in the virtual world. I was Julie when I bought the big black SUV in Pennsylvania. I borrowed a man named Phil’s IP address when I attempted to hack into the CIA’s intranet. I think it was Lindsey who purchased all the firearms in Kentucky and Patti who bought all the computer equipment in Tennessee. I take the names from waitresses, magazine covers and overheard conversations, changing aliases daily, sometimes hourly. Organizing information and data has always been a strong suit of mine, and I bounce between these identities without faltering, storing Julie and Lindsey and Patti away in the back of my head when I’m done with them in case I ever need to use them again.

The people I buy things from at pawnshops and computer stores never suspect I’m not who I say I am. Or if they do, they don’t say anything. It’s amazing how few questions get asked when you’re willing to overpay in cash. And, thanks to the fairly primitive internet firewalls and security systems used by banks on this planet, money is easy to come by if you’re someone who’s good with ones and zeros and moving them around like I am. In the past few weeks I’ve skimmed minuscule amounts of currency from millions of bank accounts across the world. Money is one of the few things I have a lot of. Money and questions and anger.

I tip the envelope farther, and a set of keys falls into my open palm.

The ranch was trickier to come by. I knew I wanted somewhere far away from crowded areas, or even the nearest town if possible. Remote places like that were easy to locate, but it took me awhile before I found someone willing to part with their property in a hurry, and without ever even meeting me face-to-face. All I needed was to wire some money and forge a few signatures, and suddenly I owned a piece of this planet.

I take another look around the porch, and I can’t help but think of how much Zophie would have liked this place. She spent many nights at the old cabin in New York out on the veranda with a cup of tea, staring at nothing in particular. Probably thinking of her brother, Janus. Back when there was still hope that he was alive.

A shallow ache rises in my chest. It’s a feeling I’m familiar with, the hurt that comes when thoughts of Zophie or Janus or my brother, Zane, settle in my mind. No matter how hard I try to numb myself and keep memories of them buried, they always manage to find me again. I remind myself that it’s not sadness I should be feeling, but anger. That, at least, I can use. It’s what fueled me on Lorien when I wanted nothing more than to take down the Elders and uproot our society. Now, rage against the Mogadorians is what keeps me going half the time. A burning desire for vengeance in the name of everyone I’ve lost.

But to make the Mogs suffer, I have to get to work. And so I swallow hard, shake my head a few times and unlock the front door.

Inside, the house is dusty, all the furniture covered with white drop cloths. The skull of a big, horned animal hangs over the fireplace mantel. Why the people of Earth choose to decorate their dwellings with the corpses of animals, I have no idea. Killing for sport was an unthinkable crime on Lorien, but based on a few appalling stories I’ve overheard at hunting-supply stores in my travels here, I gather it’s not exactly uncommon on Earth. I can only imagine what Crayton’s reaction would be if he were with me, knowing his fondness for Chimærae. There’s a pang in my chest as I wonder where he is now. Are he and Ella safe? How big has she grown in all this time since I last saw her?

Again I push these thoughts out of my head and keep going.

I pull one of the white cloths off a table and toss it over the skull, obscuring it. Then I explore the other rooms. The refrigerator in the kitchen has a huge freezer, meaning my grocery trips to the towns half an hour away can be infrequent. The hall closet can serve as my miniature armory, where I can stash a few of the weapons I’ve picked up lately. I leave the furniture in the spare bedrooms covered and scope out the office located at the end of the one hallway running through the house. This will be where I spend most of my time—the sanctuary in my new base of operations.

I start to unload my SUV.

Until recently I traveled light, mostly because Mogs had destroyed almost everything I had on this planet while I was out chasing a lead on the Garde. For a few weeks I traveled aimlessly, making my way across the United States, an outsider in a world not my own. I thought about searching for the rest of my people: the Garde and Cêpans from the other ship. According to Janus, they’d scattered. That’s what he’d said shortly before the Mogadorians executed him on camera and sent me the video. The evidence I’ve discovered online seems to back this up. I’ve found hints of them here and there: pictures of an older man and young boy with a Loric chest trying to find passage to another continent, reports of tattooed men chasing a kid in Canada. I’m not sure why they’ve split up, but for the most part they’re covering their tracks well, staying off the grid. I guess their Cêpans are competent, for the most part. Being impossible to find bodes well for their survival, but not for me finding them.

There’s some bigger game at play here, but I can’t figure it out. Why are the Mogs after these kids? What’s so special about them? Why spend resources trying to destroy the last of the Loric?

These are the questions I’ve been trying to answer, all while doing my best to help the Garde stay out of sight. If I see something on the internet that sounds like it could be related to them, I try to wipe it away or bury it in broken code. But staying on the move has made this difficult to do. That’s why I’m here now, at Yellowhammer. It’s a base of operations for a coming war. Because, if the Mogs are here on Earth, it’s probably only a matter of time before they do to this planet what they did to my home.

Most of the boxes I have are full of computer equipment I’ve purchased on my trek across this country. Once everything is piled up in the back office, I begin to piece things together, breaking down machines and wiring them in more efficient ways, building a system that will incorporate the highly upgraded laptop I created in Egypt using Loric data pads. The custom laptop is fine, but the machine I’m building will allot me more processing power and storage space. The work is tedious, but I remain focused. Night falls and then the sun rises. I pause only a few times for water and to stretch my legs.

When my head starts to pound from concentrating for so long, I take a break and walk around outside, taking note of all the places where I can add some cameras and heighten security once the computer is up and running—something a little more substantial than barbed wire. This place will take a lot of work, but by the time I’m through it will be a fortress of knowledge and power. I plan to collect every scrap of information I can about the Mogs. Those bastards who destroyed my planet, who murdered my friend, will pay. I’ll figure out what they’re up to and help the other Loric bring them down. Somehow. Someway.

I pull open the half-rusted doors of the big barn out back. They squeal as if they haven’t been moved in a long time. Light filters through a missing section of roof, illuminating a few bales of hay and a scattering of tools hanging on one wall. The place isn’t much—in fact, it looks as though one good shove could send it clattering to the ground—but it’ll do.

With any luck, soon I’ll have a ship in here. The one that brought the chosen Garde and their Cêpans to this planet—maybe the last Loric ship in the universe for all I know.

Because whatever it is that the Garde are here to do, they’ll need all the help they can get. They’re being hunted. We’re being hunted. And when they’re masters of their Legacies and decide it’s time to strike against the Mogadorians, they’ll need the ship.

Hell, I’ll fly them to the Mogs myself.

CHAPTER TWO

ONCE MY DESKTOP SUPERCOMPUTER—OR AT LEAST what passes for one on this planet—is set up in the office, I get straight to work.

I start with the information I have from Zophie and Janus. It’s not much, but that’s what I’m here to fix.

Since tracking the Garde has proved to be nearly impossible, I take a different approach. A lifetime ago when we were still drifting through space in a refurbished ship, Zophie mentioned that Pittacus Lore had set up a contact for the chosen Garde here on Earth. If I can find that person, I may be able to get a better sense of what’s going on. He or she might even know where Janus’s ship is.

And there’s always the possibility that maybe Pittacus survived the fall of Lorien. Who knows where the Elders were when our planet was destroyed? Maybe he’s even here, on Earth. His contact might know.

So I focus my investigation on a simple question: How would Pittacus Lore go about recruiting a human to help the Loric?

I spend countless hours thinking about this, trying to get inside the head of an Elder. Would he have sought out a great thinker? Or a military leader? Or perhaps he would have chosen someone with extreme wealth who would have the resources to protect the last of our kind. These inquiries only lead to more questions, though: What Earth languages did Pittacus speak? How many contacts might he have had on this planet? In my time at the Lorien Defense Academy, I worked on improving technologies for Earth but never thought to ask how those technologies were given to the beings here. For the first time in my life, I regret not sticking it out at the LDA after my brother’s death. If I had, maybe I’d have more information to work with now.

I barely sleep and rarely leave the back office. With blackout curtains on the windows, I hardly even notice whether it’s light or dark outside. Eventually I realize I may be looking at this the wrong way. Maybe Pittacus didn’t find a contact on Earth. Maybe someone on Earth found him.

This is something I can use, something narrower. I start looking into Earth initiatives to contact other planets. There are relatively few, and I’m struck, not for the first time, by how strange it must be to think your small world of dirt and grass and water might be unique in its ability to support life. Over the course of a few days I follow leads that go nowhere. I break into email accounts and track the browsing histories of a dozen astrophysicists, cosmologists, astronauts—even a few crackpot conspiracy theorists. I uncover nothing that even alludes to Lorien or Pittacus Lore.

Finally, I stumble across a promising candidate. I find information about a man named Malcolm Goode, who was outspoken in his belief of extraterrestrial beings—so much so that it apparently cost him his job at a place of education that sounds not unlike the LDA. More important, he published several articles detailing his attempts to broadcast messages to other planets.

His research and methods, while primitive, are sound.

Once I have a name and a little bit of history, it’s not long before I find Malcolm Goode himself. He appears to be living in a small town in a state named Ohio. I do more digging and find a few email addresses linked to his name. From there it’s hardly any work to hack into his accounts, where I sift through the everyday correspondences of what seems to be a very uneventful life.

Except for one email I discover that leads me to a private online forum. It has been inactive for years, and the correspondences all seem innocuous. Still, I dig around, until I find a deleted post still lurking in the lines of code that make up the message board:

Hello? Malcolm? Is anyone still on here? Has there been any more contact from the Pittacus? -Ethan

I consider trying to contact Malcolm online or over the phone, but I figure that if he is the person Pittacus talked to, he’s probably been sworn to secrecy. I don’t want to risk having him disappear on me, so instead I load some gear and weapons back into my SUV and drive from Alabama to Ohio for most of the next day. I hate leaving Yellowhammer unfortified, but tracking down this lead takes priority. Besides, I can’t imagine I’ve done anything there to set off alarms for the Mogadorians.

Not yet, at least.

Malcolm lives on the outskirts of a town called Paradise. When I arrive, I park down the street and watch his house for a while, trying to get an idea of who this man is. Through my binoculars I see him pass by the windows, along with a woman and young boy, about six or seven years old, if I had to guess. His wife and son, I assume—I remember mention of them in some of his emails. I watch him water some flowers in the front yard, then wash and dry dishes in the kitchen. His existence seems perfectly ordinary—so normal that I’m concerned I’ve got the wrong guy entirely.

When his wife leaves and the boy runs out into the backyard to play, I make my move. I pull in behind a truck in Malcolm’s driveway and park. A few seconds later I’m standing on his porch, knocking on the door. I keep one of Raylan’s blasters tucked into the pocket of my long, black coat. I’ve taken to carrying it with me wherever I go, just in case.

Malcolm Goode answers the door with a smile. His hair is a little unkempt, dark and wavy. His eyes are bright, brows raised in anticipation.

“Can I help you?” he asks, pushing thick glasses up his nose. He’s on the scrawny side, and I’m much taller than he is. Good—if this goes badly and he ends up less than pleased that I showed up on his doorstep, I’ll have that advantage on him.

I get straight to the point.

“I’m here about Pittacus Lore.”

He pauses before responding.

“I think you have the wrong house.”

“We both know that’s not true,” I say, but not in English. I use the language of Lorien. It feels so strange on my tongue at first—I haven’t spoken the words of my people in months. Malcolm twitches as I speak. His eyes go wide for an instant, and then he blinks a lot, staring at me in a mixture of confusion and astonishment. This is exactly the type of reaction I’m looking for.

“What language is that?” Malcolm asks quietly, unconvincingly. “I’ve never heard it before.”

I switch back to English.

“I know who you are, Malcolm Goode.”

He starts to shut the door, but my foot is in the way before he can get it closed.

“Listen,” I say firmly. “I have no intention of hurting you. I’m only looking for information.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, trying to kick my foot out of the way.

I put my hand on the door, flexing my fingers and pushing back a little. Malcolm must feel the resistance, because his nostrils flare.

“I just want answers,” I say.

“I don’t know anything.” His voice is higher now, verging on panic. “If you don’t leave now I’ll call the police.”

“And tell them what?” I ask. “That I came asking about a Loric Elder? You don’t want something like that getting into the papers. It’d lead the Mogs right to you.”

Malcolm’s face goes white. He stops pushing so hard against the door.

“They’re here,” I continue. “The Mogadorians. He told you about them, right? Pittacus must have known what was going to happen to Lorien if he set up things with you in advance. The Mogs are on this planet. They’ve come to Earth. I just want answers.”

Malcolm looks up at me. He searches my face. I can see him doing calculations in his head, trying to figure out what to do next.

“How do I know you’re not a—a Mogadorian?” he asks.

“Malcolm, if you’d ever seen one of those bastards, you’d realize that’s the most insulting question I’ve ever been asked.”

He nods a little. “From what I’ve heard . . . I can imagine.”

“I know about the ones who came from Lorien. The nine Garde and their Mentors. I’m a friend. If I wasn’t, I’d have shown up with an army.”

After a few moments he takes the rest of his weight off the door, opening it just wide enough for me to pass through. While he pokes his head out the front doorway and looks around, I investigate the first few rooms in his house, taking in my surroundings, preparing for anything. Just because this man was chosen by one of the Loric Elders doesn’t mean he’s to be trusted. Not by me, at least—not when I barely have any faith in the Elders themselves. I keep one hand in my coat pocket, ready to draw my weapon at the first sign that Malcolm isn’t going to cooperate.

But he does. He ushers me into his office. Dark wooden shelves line the walls. They’re filled with books, files and papers all piled on top of each other haphazardly. The stacks spill out onto virtually every surface of the room, and for a moment I’m reminded of my small basement apartment on Lorien, packed with all sorts of computer equipment and various electronic projects.

Malcolm peeks through the window and looks into the backyard, where his son runs around with some big spaceship or airplane held over his head. When he seems satisfied that the boy is safe, he closes the blinds and turns to me.

“How did you—,” he starts.

“An old message board,” I say.

“But . . . we abandoned that well before the ship landed. And we only ever spoke in code. Anything conspicuous was deleted.”

“Nothing is ever really deleted from the internet, Malcolm. One day your people will figure that out. If it’s any consolation, it took me quite some time to find it.”

He shakes his head. “But we were so careful. There were never any actual details mentioned. That was all reserved for face-to-face meetings.”

“Someone didn’t follow the rules,” I say.

He considers this for a moment, and then his face twists into a scowl.

“I thought I’d gotten rid of . . .” He sighs. “Nothing is ever really deleted.” He purses his lips a little. “Ethan. I always figured he’d end up being trouble. That’s why we cut him out before the ship ever landed.”

“How did Pittacus recruit you?” I ask. “Through your messages sent into space?”

He looks at me quizzically before nodding.

“I’ve done my research on you,” I explain. “Are you still in contact? Could you get a message out to him?”

Malcolm’s eyebrows furrow together, and his gaze falls to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But Pittacus is dead.”

These words land in my ears, but I feel them in my core, my stomach twisting so hard that I almost double over. This had always been a possible, if not likely, scenario. Still, hearing this for sure takes a little bit of air from my lungs. I always wanted the Elders out of power, but never dead. Not really. We are fewer and fewer.

“You’re sure?” I ask.

“Quite positive,” he says. He glances to the window overlooking the backyard and then back to me.

“What about a man named Loridas?” I ask.

“Another of the ‘Elders,’ yes? From what Pittacus told me . . . I think they’re all gone as well.”

I nod slowly.

“Was there anyone else on the ship other than the nine children and their guardians?”

“No. Well, there was a pilot too, but he took the ship to hide it. I’m not—”

“Janus,” I say. “His name was Janus. He’s dead too.”

I turn away from him, taking a few steps toward a wall of bookshelves as I let all this information sink in.

“Who are you?” he asks. “You speak their language. Are you from Lorien as well?”

I’m about to answer when I see it—tucked under a few pages of loose paper on a bookshelf. A white tablet.

I recognize it; it’s Loric. A tracking device used to keep tabs on ships, inventory and sometimes even people, depending on how it’s programmed.

If it’s here . . .

In a few quick strides I’m across the room and the tablet is in my hands, the papers on top of it tumbling to the floor.

“He gave you this?” I ask.

“Pittacus did, yes,” Malcolm says. “Though I’m afraid he didn’t give me any instructions other than to keep it safe. He was wounded and . . . do you know what it is?”

I pull my laptop out of my bag and find a connector cable from one of the old Loric data pads. It slides into a port at the bottom of the white tablet, connecting it to my computer. Within seconds I’ve got a map of Earth pulled up on the device.

“How did you . . .” He trails off.

“I’m good with computers,” I murmur. “And I used these once or twice back on Lorien.”

There are blue blips pulsing across the planet. Blue blips that represent people. Ten in all. Could this be the nine Garde plus one more? Maybe Ella? Given her parents’ powers, I wouldn’t be surprised if she developed gifts early on.

Or is there another that I’m not accounting for?

And there are two triangles too. One triangle is in Egypt—my crashed rocket. The second lies in the southwestern United States.

The other ship.

My pulse quickens until I can feel it throbbing at my temples.

“Do you know this area?” I ask.

Malcolm leans over my shoulder. “Let’s see. That looks like it would be . . . Oh.” He snorts a little. “Yes. I believe that’s where the Dulce Base is supposed to be located. A secret government operation. Most people are more familiar with Area 51, but this is no tourist trap like Roswell.”

“Dulce,” I say to myself. That makes sense. If the American government stumbled across Janus’s ship, they’d likely want to keep it hidden. At least that means it’s not in Mog hands.

“What’s in Dulce?” Malcolm asks.

“This is perfect,” I say, ignoring him. “I’ll get the ship back. With this tablet I could easily collect the Garde too.”

“You can’t,” Malcolm says, shaking his head rapidly. “They have to stay separated.”

“They won’t stand a chance against the Mogs if they’re found alone,” I say.

Something flashes on Malcolm’s face. He shakes his head a little.

“You don’t know about the protection that’s been placed on them, do you?” he asks.

I narrow my eyes. “I think we need to have a very long talk, Malcolm Goode.”

CHAPTER THREE

I KNEW THE ELDERS MUST HAVE BEEN UP TO something when they’d sent Garde to this planet. I’d even assumed that they’d in some way endanger the young Loric in the name of the greater good—the sort of thing I expected from Lorien’s rulers. Never did I imagine that they would give these nine children the order in which they would die and call it “protection.” In terms of survival, maybe it makes sense. But all I can do is think of the poor, unlucky kid who was picked to be Number One. What kind of burden is that to carry around with you?

These nine Garde—somehow they’re to be the saviors of our people. That helps explain why the Mogadorians have come to Earth: if the escaped Garde will one day bring Lorien back to power, it’s not a stretch to assume that they might do so by somehow toppling those who destroyed our planet to begin with. Of course the Mogs want to eradicate them.

It’s obvious now why they separated. The reason they’ve scattered so far, these tiny blips on my screen located across this planet. I’d been wary of reuniting them, but now I see for certain that this would be dangerous for everyone. The Mogs could take them out in a single attack that way, destroying all the children at once. Better that they stay separate. At least for now. At least until they’re older and stronger, with Legacies to fight with. I hope their Cêpans are skilled—that they’ve been given the strongest, most capable Mentors from our planet.

I have to let them be. As much as I hate to do it, I have to rely on the wisdom of the Elders and the capabilities of the Cêpans. Even seeking the Garde out individually would mean I was running the risk of leading the Mogs right to them, no matter how careful I was. That leaves me with one clear goal.

I’m going to Dulce to get that ship.

“I’m taking this with me,” I say, staring down at the white tablet.

“What?” Malcolm asks. “No. Why? You can’t.”

“You don’t have a choice,” I say. The tablet is Loric. It belongs with me.

“Pittacus told me to protect it. He said it would prove to be useful.”

“Exactly. I’m going to use it.”

“No.” Malcolm curls his fingers into fists and plants his feet in front of me. “It’s my responsibility. I’ve put everything on the line to help your people. My life. My family. Pittacus told me to keep this tablet safe for the Garde, and that’s what I’m going to do. One of the Cêpan—I believe his Loric name is Brandon—said he’d be back for it if there was trouble, or when his charge was at the age when he would start developing powers or whatever you know them as.”

My hand moves towards my weapon. I don’t want to threaten Malcolm with violence—he’s right when he says he’s sacrificed much to help my people, after all—but I’m not leaving this piece of technology in the hands of someone who doesn’t even know how to use it properly.

There’s a clattering from the hallway. I turn and see Malcolm’s kid standing there. A plastic robot is on the floor in front of him. He’s wearing a shirt with an image of Saturn on it, the sixth planet from this solar system’s sun. I recognize its rings; I’ve seen them up close, on my journey to this world. The boy is pale and thin and has sandy-blond hair, and even though physically he looks nothing like Zane, there’s something in his expression—full of wonder—that immediately makes me think of my brother. It hurts a place inside me I thought had finally begun to heal.

“Sam,” Malcolm says, letting his posture slacken. “Go outside, would you?”

Sam just stares up at me. Malcolm looks back and forth between us a few times before crossing the room and pushing Sam out of my sight.

I think about the fact that this family in a small town in Ohio has perhaps saved the last of my people. And about how I was considering taking out my blaster and forcing Malcolm to let me have the tablet. What would Zophie say? What would Zane say?

I’m not some Mogadorian thug. I’m not going to threaten this man and his son. That’s not who I am.

Besides, if the Cêpans are counting on the white tablet being in Paradise, I can’t very well take it back to Alabama.

“Your son can stay,” I say, setting the tracking device down on Malcolm’s desk and packing up my gear. “I should be on my way.”

Malcolm looks confused but nods.

“Tell whoever comes for the tablet that the ship in Egypt is wrecked,” I say, moving past Malcolm and his son towards the front door.

“Wait,” he says. “Who are you? How did you get here? You haven’t even told me your name. Where are you going?”

“New Mexico.” I stop on the porch, turning to him. “Malcolm. Take my visit as a warning. I found you. It took me a while, but I did. And that means the Mog—” I glance at Sam, hiding behind his father’s legs. “That others might be able to as well. Others who aren’t as friendly as I am.”

Malcolm stares hard at me, nodding a little bit.

“Keep your family safe,” I say, stepping down onto the Goodes’ yard. “And the tablet too. At least hide the damned thing. The last thing we need is for that to fall into the enemy’s hands.”

Malcolm is still on the porch when I back out of his driveway. Sam lingers in the doorframe. As I start down the road, he waves to me.

The drive from Paradise to Dulce is a long one. Lush green fields eventually give way to flat plains that seem to stretch on past the horizon. I rest at a motel in Kansas for a few hours, hardly sleeping because, for the first time since I arrived on Earth, I know exactly where Janus’s ship is. And because I’m worried about how I’m going to get to it. I run through what history I can find of this “secret base” online. Most of it seems to come from conspiracy theorists and quacks—though, considering that Malcolm was viewed as one of those by the rest of his profession, perhaps I shouldn’t be so quick to pass judgment. It seems that most believe this base is some sort of research facility, which I hope means it won’t be guarded too heavily. Maybe I’ll even be able to tap into its communications once I’m close by so I can get a feel for what the security is like inside—something I dare not try to do on the motel’s unsecure network.

Perhaps. Maybe. The uncertainties are many, and I have to remind myself that this is something I cannot rush. I can’t just cut through a fence or hop over a gate and storm the base, rushing headfirst into this situation. Only a fool would be so brazen—or naive—to do so.

I get a sense of the area where the base is supposed to be via online maps and photographs, and then try to sleep. The next morning I rise before the sun and drive through the mountains of Colorado, which eventually give way to the arid terrain of New Mexico.

Once I spot a chain-link fence topped in razor wire and covered in signs warning against photography and trespassing, I figure I’m in the right place. The base’s perimeter is barely visible from the trail-like road I’m on. It’s the middle of the afternoon, and I’m not exactly inconspicuous driving around the desert area in my big, black SUV, so I don’t test my luck by getting any closer to the fence. Instead, I head to the nearby town of Dulce and pay for a week at a cheap motel. I stash most of my things in a shoddy little room in case I manage to get the ship and have to leave my car behind. I keep a few weapons with me, then round up some additional supplies from a sporting-goods store. Night-vision goggles. Some wire cutters, just in case.

At night I return. I park a half mile from the fence and scope out the site with my new goggles. I don’t notice any cameras or alarms. It’s not until I get closer that I can finally see the tops of buildings and some of the grounds of the base. I stand a few feet from the fence and observe.

And I see things I can’t even begin to comprehend.

The base is owned by United States government agencies—that’s obvious from the information I found online and the signs dotting the fence line warning that I’ve approached a “military encampment.” I can also see plenty of vehicles with government plates and markings. There are a handful of armed personnel around, wearing camouflage, pacing back and forth.

But that’s not what causes my mouth to drop open and my hands to shake.

There’s a ship sitting beside a tall watchtower. Not a Loric ship, but one I recognize all the same. Hundreds just like it swarmed the skies during the invasion of Lorien, raining fire and death down upon my planet, dropping off battalions of soldiers who slaughtered my people.

It’s Mogadorian.

“Holy shit,” I whisper. “What are the Mogs doing here?”

My mind reels with the implications. Either the Mogs have taken over this base and are somehow forcing humans to work for them or . . .

I swallow down a mixture of anger and disbelief.

Or the Mogs and the American government are somehow working together.

This just got much more complicated.

I slowly lower the night-vision goggles, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. It’s only then that I hear the footsteps behind me.

CHAPTER FOUR

“HANDS IN THE AIR!” A MAN SHOUTS. FLASHLIGHTS go on. I hear a few metallic clicks behind me.

One glance over my shoulder tells me these aren’t Mogs. Four men in brown law enforcement uniforms form a half circle behind me, pinning me up against the fence. Their guns are aimed at my back, but the weapons shake a little. They seem almost scared.

I take a moment before moving, going over my options. I’ve got a shotgun in the backseat and Raylan’s blaster in my coat pocket. I could try to make a run for it. . . .

But these are humans. They’re probably just doing their jobs. What are the chances I could make it out of here without accidentally killing one of them?

Part of me says I shouldn’t care—that me escaping would be for the sake of the remaining Loric. But that sounds an awful lot like something the Elders would say. And I am not an Elder.

I’m reminded for the second time in the last twenty-four hours why I like to work behind the scenes.

“I said, hands in the air where I can see ’em!” the same voice shouts.

I turn slowly, raising my hands. The officers look startled at first, but I’m not sure what aspect of my appearance they’re surprised by. Maybe the fact that I’m not a man. I’ve come to learn that just like on Lorien, the people of Earth aren’t used to a woman being so tall. After the flash of surprise, though, there’s a wave of relief that rushes over them. The one with the big hat on—the one who I assume is in charge—gets in close, putting his flashlight up to my face. He looks at my recently shaved head, then into my eyes for a few moments.

“What are you doing out here?” he asks.

“Sightseeing,” I reply.

He lets out a grunt, but I can see his posture soften. The others lower their guns a little.

“This is government property,” he says. “Trespassing isn’t taken lightly.”

“I’m on this side of the fence,” I say.

He grins. “Which puts you under my jurisdiction. Now, I know just about everybody in Rio Arriba County, and I’ve definitely never seen you before, which means we need to get acquainted. Why don’t you start by telling me why you’re sneaking around in the dark with those hunting goggles?”

He motions to one of his men. The officer moves behind me and is patting me down before I can object. He pulls the blaster out of my coat pocket.

“What the . . . ,” he whispers, wrapping his fingers around its hilt.

He’s obviously never held a blaster before and doesn’t realize what a sensitive trigger it has, because the weapon fires with an electronic sound and melts a hole in my front driver’s-side tire. The SUV leans as the tire deflates.

“Dammit,” I mutter.

Suddenly everyone’s guns are on me again, and the man in the big hat’s got my hands behind my back. I think about resisting, but there’s no way I can outrun them now. One of the men starts asking me questions about some deputy I’ve never heard of, but the leader shuts him up.

“No one talks to her until we’re back at the station. This is my interrogation.”

“Do you want us to keep patrolling the perimeter?” one of the officers asks.

“Lights off.” The man in the hat nods. “Stay quiet. I don’t want anyone seeing you—on either side of the fence.” He turns to me. “You have the right to remain silent. . . .”

My mind races as I try to remember everything I’ve learned in passing about the American justice system, any tidbit of knowledge that might be helpful.

“What crime am I being charged with?” I ask as he pushes me towards a car I can barely see in the darkness. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Possession of an illegal firearm,” the man says. “And suspected murder of a police officer.”

I piece together what I can from the back of the squad car based on the conversation between the man in the hat—the county sheriff—and one of his deputies. Apparently two officers went investigating reports of bizarre lights near the base, which I gather isn’t that strange a call for this area. But something went bad. Only one officer returned, his body shot full of cauterized holes from some sort of unidentified weapon. Before he slipped into a coma, he said something about men with tattoos on their heads and black eyes.

No wonder they reacted so strongly to the blaster firing.

Panic starts to settle in my chest once the shock of being arrested wears off. I have no identification. I’m not even human. And I’m handcuffed in the back of a locked-down police car with a thick layer of metal grating separating me from the front seat.

I have to escape this somehow.

As we shoot through Dulce, sirens blaring and lights flashing, I try to figure out where we are in relation to the motel where my computer and several extra weapons are stashed. The town is small, so it doesn’t take me long to get my bearings—though that also means there aren’t many places for me to hide if I do escape from police custody. Once I spot the motel’s sign in the distance, I memorize the turns we make.

They take me to a small station in the center of town. I guess Dulce doesn’t need much of a police presence. The deputy pulls me out of the backseat and escorts me through the front doors into a small lobby, where a woman with a headset sits behind a cluttered desk. The back wall is mostly frosted glass. The woman updates the men on their wounded officer’s condition—which isn’t looking good—and then I’m taken through a swinging door.

The rest of the station is mostly one big, open room lined with wooden desks. My eyes dart around. There’s a weapons cabinet in the back corner of the room, but it’s padlocked. The blinds are down on the windows, and I silently curse myself for not checking to see if there were bars on them when we were still outside.

“You want her in holding with Tony?” the deputy asks, motioning to the back of the station, where I can see a man sleeping inside a small cell. “He’ll probably be passed out until morning.”

“Just cuff her in a chair for now,” the sheriff responds. “I want her processed by the book.”

My left cuff is taken off and attached to the handle on the front of a short metal filing cabinet that has an empty coffeepot on top. The deputy points to a stool beside it, and I begrudgingly sit, pulling on the cuffs as I do, testing the weight of the cabinet. But it’s solid. There’s no way I’m dragging it out of here. I take in my surroundings. The deputy flips on the coffeemaker before walking over to one of the desks. He drops my confiscated blaster—now sealed in an evidence bag—on top of a stack of papers.

“By the book,” he murmurs, taking a seat. “Sure thing.”

The deputy types on the computer, the sheriff looking over his shoulder. From their conversation I understand that they’re writing up some sort of report about my arrest. The desktop computers they’ve got here look ancient, and for a second I think about how easy it would be to hack into them and steal every bit of information I wanted. But that’s the least of my concerns right now.

Eventually, the sheriff walks over.

“Name?” he asks.

I stare back at him. Neither of us blinks. I don’t know how long this goes on—minutes? Finally he speaks again.

“Lady, I can do this all night, but eventually you’ll probably get tired or hungry. Me? I’ll just have the deputy bring me a cheeseburger. Now, you’re not going anywhere anytime soon, so you might as well cooperate so we can make your stay more comfortable.”

Our standoff continues. He pours himself a steaming cup of fresh coffee, never taking his eyes off me, even when he sips from it. The only thing that interrupts us is when the woman from the front desk comes through the swinging door.

“Um, Sheriff,” she says, clearly concerned about something. “There are two men here who insist that—”

Before she can finish, the door swings open again and two men in black suits walk in. The first one’s older, with thinning white hair and a wide nose. The second man has dark skin, like me, with a thin mustache running over his top lip.

“Special Agent Purdy with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” the first man says, holding up some identification I can’t see. “I’ve got questions for your detainee.”

“Now hold on just one goddamned minute,” the sheriff says, starting toward the man. “How the hell did you even know we’d arrested someone?”

Purdy smiles. “We’re always watching, Sheriff.”

Of course they are—if the government is working with the Mogs out here, then they’re likely monitoring all sorts of communications. I was probably scanned or filmed the entire time I was out by the fence, even if I didn’t see any cameras.

So much for being careful. Again I remind myself that I should be back at Yellowhammer, safely behind a computer screen.

The deputy and sheriff have a heated, quiet conversation at the front of the room. Purdy walks over to me. He pulls back his jacket and flashes a heavy-looking pistol at me before crossing his arms over his chest.

“Now, why don’t you play ball and start by telling me your name?” he asks.

“Sir,” the other man—special agent?—says.

Purdy turns and finds his partner holding up the bag with my blaster in it. He nods, and the man pockets it. Then Purdy lets out a whistle and turns his attention back to me. When he leans in close, I can smell stale coffee on his breath, and something else. Something rancid.

“Powerful little weapon you had on you,” he says. “Where’d you get it?”

I don’t say anything. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“Thanks for picking her up, boys,” Purdy says, motioning to the sheriff. “But I’m officially taking over this investigation.” He smiles at me. “You and I are going to have a long conversation back at the base.”

“What are you talking about?” the sheriff asks. “That woman’s our suspect, and if you think—”

“You can argue with me all you want, but I believe this woman may have information about acts of terrorism planned against this country. And if you think that means the government is going to let her stay in the hands of this Podunk police force, you’re delusional.”

I can practically hear the glee dripping off Purdy’s words as he pulls rank on the others. The sheriff sneers, but he doesn’t say anything. Still, his hand is on his hip, close to his gun. The other agent puffs out his chests and walks over to the officers.

I silently panic. I can’t go back to that base. Not as a prisoner. Not if the Mogs are involved there. They’ll figure out I’m Loric somehow and use me, destroy me, like they did Janus.

I know too much. About Ella and Crayton. About the white tablet. They can’t get into my head. And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to withstand whatever torture it is they used to make Janus spill all his secrets.

I have to escape. I’ve tried not to hurt any of the people on this planet—they’re just caught in the cross fire of all this. But I don’t think Purdy counts. If he’s working at the base, he’s working with the Mogs. I don’t mind hurting him; in fact, I think I’d take great pleasure in it.

He leans close again. “Hope you enjoy your last few minutes of fresh air. Because if you don’t start cooperating, I’ll see to it that you never set foot aboveground again.”

I’ve got one chance.

“This is for Zophie,” I mutter.

And then I attempt a desperate escape.

CHAPTER FIVE

MY BOOT CONNECTS WITH PURDY’S STOMACH. AS he reels back, I slip off the chair, crouch as much as I can and then leap forward, pulling hard against the cuffs. The square drawer of the filing cabinet jerks out behind me. The cuff digs into my flesh as the drawer catches, but I continue in one fluid motion, pulling at the metal with both my hands. It’s my greatest luck in life that the drawer is full of coffee supplies and not actual files; I’m able to pull it out. It swings over my head in a sprawling arc, threatening to tear my hand from my body.

There’s a loud metallic bang as the edge of the drawer smashes against Purdy’s face. Suddenly blood is everywhere.

“My nose!” Purdy gropes blindly at the desk behind him. “She broke my fucking nose!”

He half collapses into a rolling chair. The other agent has my blaster, so I lunge for Purdy’s gun and then slide over the tile flooring, the now-empty drawer trailing behind me. I fire a warning shot into the ceiling as I duck behind one of the desks. It’s enough to make the sheriff and his deputy take cover.

Purdy pulls a walkie-talkie out of his jacket pocket and yells something into it. Suddenly there’s a scream from the lobby, and I can see a couple of dark shapes on the other side of the frosted glass before they come bursting through the swinging door: two Mogadorians.

Shit.

I don’t hesitate to fire a few shots over the desk at the Mogs, just enough to keep them at bay. The kickback from the weapon is stronger than I expected, and I don’t manage to actually hit any of my targets.

Blaster fire fills the air and shreds the monitors, papers and picture frames on the desk. I hear a yelp behind me—Tony, the guy in the holding cell, is on the floor, hands over his head.

“Tony!” I shout. He seems genuinely startled to hear his name, but he looks up and locks eyes with me. I point to my handcuffs. “The key?”

He shakes his head, lips quivering. I don’t have time for this—I’m not going to get out of here dragging two feet of drawer behind me, and from what I can intuit, Tony’s something of a regular in this station. If he doesn’t help me out, my options are to lose my hand or try to shoot off the cuffs.

I fire two more shots over my shoulder and then turn back to Tony, pointing the gun at him.

“The key,” I say firmly, directly.

His finger quivers as he points to the desk a few feet away from me.

“S-second drawer,” he says.

There’s a pause in the blaster fire. I peek around the desk corner to see that the sheriff and deputy have both gone white staring at the Mogs. In turn, the bloodthirsty bastards look back and forth between the lawmen and Purdy as if asking what they should be doing.

“Goddammit,” Purdy shouts. He’s crouched on one side of the cabinet, a bloody handkerchief up to his nose. The other agent is crouched nearby, covering him. “You weren’t supposed to see any of this. How many messes am I going to have to clean up tonight?”

I use the confusion and dart to the next desk. Blaster shots pepper the filing-cabinet drawer with holes. I open the desk and dig through a bunch of small packets of potato chips and candy bars until I find a little key.

Maybe luck is with me.

I toss the cuffs to the floor and take a fleeting look at my wrist, which is rubbed raw and deep red. I’m about to slam the desk door shut when I see another key—a car key with a tag on it that says 013.

I pocket it, just in case—if I can get to the parking lot, number thirteen might be my way out of here. I’m going to have to escape this little town somehow, and if this place is crawling with Mogs, I definitely won’t be able to get away on foot.

On the other side of the station, the cops have realized that the black-eyed, tattooed Mogs are shooting the blasters that likely killed their fellow officer, and they shout all kinds of questions at the bastards. The police train their guns on them. I use that to my advantage: I fire a bullet that shoots straight through the chest of one of the Mogs. He lets out a groan, and then he’s just a pile of dust on the floor.

The officers shout in confusion. Purdy orders the other agent to take me down, and I fire a shot in their direction. The mostly full coffeepot on top of the filing cabinet shatters, spilling glass and scalding liquid onto the other agent’s head. He cries out in pain as I throw the drawer that had been attached to me seconds before. It smashes out a window on the side of the office—no bars on the outside.

“Dammit,” Purdy shouts. “Take care of them. I’ll get the woman.”

The remaining Mog crosses over to the cops in a few quick bounds and swings a thick fist. The sheriff falls in a heap. I make for the window, shooting behind me in Purdy’s direction until the gun clicks. I miss him. Still, I caused him to take cover, which buys me a few extra seconds. I jump through the broken-out window. Glass slices my body, grazing me at several points, but it’s nothing serious. At least, not compared to what will happen if I get dragged away by Mogs.

Outside, the air is cool, and I sprint towards the little parking lot at the back of the station where I see a handful of police cars. I pull the key labeled 013 out of my pocket, ready to make my escape.

But there is no car 013.

Dammit.

I’m about to make a desperate run for it when I spot two police motorcycles parked against the side of the building. Big, hulking bikes. One of them has #13 painted on the side.

That’s my way out of here.

It takes me a few seconds to even figure out where the key goes. Then I just push anything that will move until I finally hit a switch on the right handle that turns the damned thing on. The engine revs when I twist one of the controls—it’s not unlike some vehicles I’ve seen on Lorien—and the whole blasted machine nearly shoots out from between my legs, ramming into the wall beside it.

“Whoa,” I murmur, trying to get my balance again.

A shot sounds behind me, and the clear-plastic shield on the front of the bike shatters—Purdy’s out of the station now, with a new gun pointed in my direction. I immediately regret leaving my blaster behind. It looks like he’s having trouble focusing. A filing cabinet to the nose will do that to you, I guess. Still, I’m not taking any chances. I twist the handle again and drive forward, too fast at first. The bike wobbles, and it feels like I’m going to fall off. But I keep going, slowly accelerating until I can tell the momentum is holding me in place. I don’t even try to figure out how to turn on the headlight as I make my way back to my motel room, remembering the path we took to get to the station in the first place.

The few minutes it takes me to cross town feel like hours, and I’m sure at every turn I’m going to be met by a line of Mogs. But the streets are quiet, giving me a chance to wonder just how deeply the Mogs have infiltrated the United States—or all countries, for that matter. How much have they brainwashed this planet?

Is Earth even salvageable?

My thoughts go back to the police officers. There’s no way Purdy will let them live. Not after they’ve seen the Mogs. I grind my teeth until my jaws ache. If I hadn’t come here, they’d still be alive.

Or maybe not. They were investigating the base, after all. They’d caught wind that something was wrong there. It was probably only a matter of time before the Mogs and the FBI made some kind of move. I just sped things up. Soon Dulce will probably be nothing more than a ghost town.

I must look wild by the time I get to the motel, because when I walk into the office to tell the clerk I lost my key, she jumps. But she hands over a spare. Then it’s only a couple of minutes before I’ve packed my laptop and stashed belongings into a spare bag and am out on the road again, leaving Dulce and these Mog bastards behind me. I can’t stay—they’ll be looking for me now, and there’s no place to hide in this tiny desert town. I have to get as far away as I can, before the reinforcements that Purdy has surely called in arrive.

I jet through the darkness, the night wind whipping against my face, and as I race through the streets, I can’t help but laugh at the fact that, against all odds, I have somehow managed to escape. My coat flaps behind me in the wind, and without warning, my thoughts go to my brother, Zane. I wonder if this is what he felt like when he was flying.

It’s only after a few miles that the shock starts to wear off and I realize that Janus’s ship—no, it’s not his anymore—that my ship is being held by what is likely a veritable army of Mogadorians and government agents.

How am I ever supposed to recover it?

CHAPTER SIX

IT’S NOT DIFFICULT TO GET BACK TO MY BASE once I’m out of Dulce.

I ditch the police bike in the first city I come to, figuring I look a little too out of place on it not to arouse suspicion. I catch a bus, the first one that’s heading east. The desert slowly fades into green pastures.

In Texas I get a new ride. I opt for a motorbike of my own this time. I’ll pick up another SUV later, but for now I want to feel the wind on my body, to hear it rushing past the black helmet I buy, drowning out all thoughts of what I’m supposed to do now that I know the Garde can’t be reunited at this time and that my ship is being guarded by forces I’ll probably never be able to take on single-handedly. Not in a fight, at least. I can’t help but dwell on the fact that the Mog presence on Earth is much, much deeper and more expansive than I ever imagined.

Or is it? Maybe Dulce is an anomaly. It might be the only place where the Mogs and the government are working hand in hand. Those could be the only Mogs on this planet, for all I know. The scant amount of intel I had on Janus and the ship meant that it should have been somewhere in the northeastern part of the country. And yet the Mogs or the FBI—whoever found it—took it across the country. Why transport it all the way to New Mexico, unless that was the only place to hide it?

More questions. Each time one is answered, five more come up.

There has to be something else I can do. I can’t just sit around this planet for the next few years waiting for the last of the Garde to develop their Legacies, counting on them to reemerge as unstoppable war machines.

I’m near the Texas-Arkansas border when I realize my goals haven’t changed all that much. Sure, the ship is a setback, but my other concerns—figuring out what the hell the Mogs are doing on this planet—are still relevant. Only now the focus has shifted. Instead of being concerned with what they’re doing here, I should be trying to figure out how they’re operating. Maybe Dulce is just the beginning of their campaign on this planet. If so, there may still be time to stop them. If the Mogadorians are only beginning to infiltrate the government, maybe there’s still time to save humanity.

All I have to do is figure out how deep the corruption runs and then expose it. In a way it’s the same thing I was attempting to do on Lorien. Only now it’s not my people I’m trying to push into action but another planet entirely. One that has no idea that there are not only intelligent beings throughout the universe, but that they’ve already infiltrated Earth.

But how do I convince a world full of people who might not be exactly open to the idea that they’re not alone in this galaxy?

When I get back to Yellowhammer, with its useless gate and rolling hills, I go straight to the back office. I type up a letter explaining to the human race who the Mogadorians are and that the Earth’s governments may have been infiltrated by these bloodthirsty monsters. I give a firsthand account of what I saw at Dulce. When I’m done, my fingers hover over the keyboard. I can get the word out. I can manipulate code and make it so that this article is on the front page of every popular website on the internet. No one would be able to ignore it. I could link it to all the evidence I’ve gathered on the Mogs and Loric on Earth so far so that the human race could help me protect my people.

But I hesitate. I think again about what I’m doing. Even if I leave out any mention of the Loric, uploading this information is a hostile act against the Mogs. Exposing them will surely have consequences.

What if in trying to warn Earth about what’s going on I push the Mogs to act themselves? To invade, or conquer. Or the Garde to come out of hiding, long before they’re ready to do so.

What if I inadvertently start an interplanetary war?

I stare at my screen for what feels like a long time. Eventually I save the document I’ve written but keep it to myself.

I realize that maybe I’ve been thinking on too large a scale. Before I try to get the entire human race on my side, I can start with just a few. Seek out those who already think that there might be life on Mars or Jupiter or hiding in Orion’s Belt. I know they’re out there. I’ve read their messages in forums and chat rooms and on message boards. I’ve inspected their blog posts, trying to figure out if they’re insane or if maybe the close encounters they’ve described were with the Loric, or the Mogs. Malcolm is proof that they exist, that they’re passionate and that they can be helpful—though, having seen him and his son together, I don’t think I’d want to push him into endangering his family anymore.

I can gather a small troop of spies and informants. People I can send to do investigations while I stay out of sight. It’ll be tricky weeding out the best candidates, but worthwhile. I’ll find those without families. People without ties or attachments. People like me. Slowly but surely, I can introduce them to what I’m really doing—who our real enemy is.

They’re my starting point. Just like Pittacus started with Malcolm. There are believers all across this planet. I just need to reach out to them.

In between fortifying the security of the ranch and its surrounding area, I set up a website. It looks normal enough—like a dozen other conspiracy theory web pages or sites dedicated to proving the existence of aliens—only this one is built on my code, set to harvest the data of anyone who visits it. With that kind of information, I can win over anyone. And who knows: if the Mogs stumble across it, maybe I’ll be able to track them as well.

I call it “Aliens Anonymous.”

When it’s time to create my own identity on the site, I pause, staring at the cursor blinking on-screen. I need not just a username, but a new persona. Someone I can establish as a trustworthy figure so that I can gather allies. A person I can be for a long time.

I think of the Garde and what I’m trying to do. After a few seconds I tap out a single word:

GUARD.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SLOWLY, YELLOWHAMMER RANCH STARTS TO change. It begins with the installation of cameras throughout the property, along with several traps and hidden automated weapons. Once the perimeter feels secure, I focus on the inside of the house. I seal up the windows to the office, fortifying the walls, turning it into a safe room. I replace the normal door with a blast door that will only open when my fingerprint is scanned, and hide that behind a quilt I pull off one of the extra beds and hang on the wall. If anyone was to search the house, they’d likely have no idea there was a room in the back unless they really started calculating measurements. If I was ever attacked, the room would protect me. At least for a little while, long enough for me to reload my weapons and perform a few last-second computer operations. The only weak spot when I’m done with my renovations is the floor. That’s where I plant the small, remote-activated explosive device I put together from parts purchased on the darker sections of the internet.

The bomb is an emergency fail-safe, though it’s perhaps odd to think of it in those terms. It’s not protection for me, really, but for the Garde. If something were to happen—if it looked like I’d lost the ranch—just a few clicks in a program and I could ensure that all my work and information went up in flames. I’d rather it be destroyed than fall into Mog hands.

Even though I know better than to try to reunite the other Loric, I do my best to serve as their guardian. I continue to delete any news stories that sound even the least bit connected to them, saving copies for myself so that I can in some way keep a sense of where some of the Garde might be.

For the most part, I don’t find much. I hope that means that the Garde are settled safely, in hiding. Establishing new identities. Getting stronger.

Although I’m diligent, I can’t help but think that I’m missing things. I’m only one person, and this planet is so much bigger than Lorien. Still, I do my best. The users of “Aliens Anonymous” are sometimes helpful, my team of informants growing. They’ve pointed me to a few events or news pieces that look as though Mogs may be involved. It’s difficult to weed through them all, though. Many of the users who flock to the website are lunatics or trolls, a term I’ve learned and often witnessed in action since starting “Aliens Anonymous.”

But there are some who are true believers, who give me useful information and follow my suggestions when I say that they should investigate their theories further and report back to me. I keep myself at a distance from them, putting their data to use but trying not to dwell on the particulars of their lives too much. They work with me, but I am alone. A few of them lose interest. One or two disappear completely. I tell myself that they too have just grown bored.

I track my enemy’s movements as well, trying to think like a Mogadorian. I learn about the sighting of weird spacecrafts in West Virginia, the descriptions similar to some of the Mogadorian ships I’ve seen, and of tattooed gangs seen in various parts of the world. It has been more difficult to suss out information about their involvement with the US government than I had expected. The FBI and other agencies have firewalls unlike anything I’ve ever seen—much too advanced for this planet. It’s my assumption that, along with whatever promises the Mogs are making to the United States, they’re also offering them technology. It reminds me of the Grid on Lorien, but even more advanced. Impenetrable. I refrain from pushing too much for fear that this technology could track me in ways I never imagined. What I need is an in, like when the Grid failed on Lorien and I was able to get my own hardware attached to the system.

I don’t know how I’m going to get that, though, because the last thing I want to do is go storming some Mog base again.

The ship is never far from my mind. I draw out blueprints and write down everything I can remember about the computer systems and construction of ships from my time at the LDA. I try to estimate what state it might be in after the long trek from Lorien to Earth. I doubt its power crystals could handle another intergalactic flight, and so I try to figure out how I might adapt the ship’s power core to run on the fuel systems available on this planet. My research delves further into engineering than my actual training ever took me at the LDA and is mostly hypothetical. Still, I start to build a few preliminary adapters and secondary power sources. I want to be prepared.

I keep tabs on Dulce as much as I can. It seems like my fears have been realized. The sheriff and officers I left behind are found dead, and the blame gets put on drug cartels moving through the area. Soon after that the town slowly dissipates and dries up. A private investor buys most of the land. I track the funds back to a few dummy accounts. It’s obvious that the Mogs or the FBI are responsible. I manage to hack into a satellite feed that gives me a visual of the base during the day—after a decryption program is run over the images—but it’s neither detailed nor very helpful. Still, I keep the feed running on one of my many monitors at all times. If they move my ship, I want to know about it. I catch a few Mog transporters moving on video. I save these clips and add them to my growing info bomb: a digital packet of information I’ve gathered about the Mogs, about their history on Lorien and even my own writing about what happened to my home planet and my experience in Dulce. Earth is not ready for this information. The Garde are not ready for this to be revealed. But one day soon they will be.

Time passes. I gather intel. I like to think I’m helping, but I’m not sure.

Two years blink by and I decide to leave Yellowhammer Ranch. I get too comfortable in the wooden farmhouse, too familiar with the rolling hills. The place suddenly starts to feel claustrophobic. I don’t abandon it completely—it could still come in handy—but I gather most of my equipment and all of my data and leave for a new secluded location in the Oregon woods. It’s there that I finally get a glimpse into Agent Purdy’s personal files thanks to his incompetent assistant, who likes to work on unprotected wireless networks in coffee shops. I manage to get into Purdy’s email account and read through a few messages detailing an operation code-named MogPro. It’s mentioned in passing, never defined, but I understand that it has something to do with Mog infiltration of the government. I take some screen grabs and save a few files, but after a couple of minutes in his email account, my computer completely freaks out. It crashes, not in a way I’ve ever seen before. I fear I’ve been discovered.

I leave Oregon minutes later, never looking back.

I move often after that, setting up safe houses around the country. The deeper I dig, the less safe I feel staying in one place for too long. But moving has its downsides. I’m in the midst of relocating when a blog post slips through the cracks:

Nine, now eight. Are the rest of you out there?

By the time I see it and wipe it away, it’s too late. I trace the poster’s IP address to a physical address in London. After that it only takes a few minutes to discover that a twelve-year-old girl was found murdered there shortly after the post went up.

One of the Garde, no doubt. If her math was correct, that means she was Number Two. If she’s dead, that means so is One, and likely their Cêpans.

Our numbers continue to decrease.

And our allies keep disappearing. I keep track of Malcolm Goode, but not long after I met with him, he disappears, leaving his truck and glasses behind in a grocery store parking lot in Paradise. I go back to the message board I used to find him in the first place and try to track down the others he corresponded with. Their years-old communications lead me to other dead ends or, more often, missing persons.

The authorities don’t seem to have any leads on where Malcolm might be—they posit that he might even have left on his own—but I have no doubt that the Mogadorians or the FBI tracked him down. When I read this news, something inside my gut twists, and all I can see is the face of the little boy standing outside of Malcolm’s office, staring up at me. At least the rest of the Goodes seem to be safe. I shudder to think that the Mogs might be using them to try to get information out of Malcolm. I consider going back to Paradise and taking them to one of my safe houses. But would they go? If not, would I take them against their will? Should I even risk exposing myself at all by going back to Ohio?

No. That’s not my place or role in all this. I coordinate from behind the scenes. I warned Malcolm they would find him. I did everything I could. He should have left.

When I’m not moving or researching, I gather weapons, ammunition, medical supplies, cash—any and all resources that might come in handy. I plant caches of them in my safe houses, which I no longer view as my own but as places that the Garde may one day use.

When they’re ready. When they’re strong.

One day soon they’ll make a move, and I’ll be watching, waiting to finally expose the Mogadorians on Earth and help the last of my people destroy them.

CHAPTER EIGHT

BY THE TIME THE MOGS MAKE THEIR BIG PLAY in Paradise, years have passed and I’ve settled into a new base: an old orchard and pecan-processing plant in Georgia.

It’s so obvious to me when I read the reports—both public and those I find in the Paradise Police Department’s files—that this is a Mog incident. Something big. The Mogs wouldn’t just attack a high school without a reason. Especially not one that happened to be located in the small town where Malcolm Goode lived.

I think back to what Malcolm had told me about one of the Cêpans saying he’d return to Paradise when his Garde was of age. When I find the YouTube clip of a boy who goes by the name John Smith basically flying out of a burning house, my assumptions are confirmed. At least one of the Garde faced off against the Mogs in Ohio.

I write up a big story on “Aliens Anonymous,” positing that the incident at Paradise High School is somehow related to alien activity. I don’t mention the Mogs or Loric by name. The trick to running this blog is playing dumb and never really showing off what I know. I’m baiting the hook, trying to find someone who has more information. The website has grown to have a dedicated user base over the years, and typically it doesn’t take too long for someone to bite.

I don’t get the full story until a user named JOLLYROGER182 contacts me through the site. He tells me what happened at the high school and about the “evil ETs” that he and some of his friends fought off. Within no time, I deduce that his real name is Mark James based on the information he gives out (a love of football, his ex-girlfriend’s name), which I cross-reference against information I find in the Paradise Police Department’s files on the burning down of the James’s residence. He thinks he’s being really sly, but his internet activity is an open book to me until I teach him how to block his IP address and send encrypted messages.

It’s not until I discover that he’s met Number Four and Number Six that I get really interested. Not only am I finally messaging with someone who has had direct contact with some of my people, but from Mark’s stories it sounds as though the Garde are finally coming together. I can’t help but feel a rush of adrenaline knowing that after all these years the work and planning I’ve been doing might finally be useful, that we can expose the Mogs and the FBI soon.

At first Mark is just another informant. I dumb down my speech and feign excitement when he first brings up the words “Mog” and “Loric,” as if I’ve never heard them before. He seems harmless enough, and I assume his interest will eventually die down—until he mentions that his ex-girlfriend, Sarah Hart, is dating Number Four. When I read this, I almost can’t believe my eyes. Here’s my possible direct link to the Garde. I try to get any information that I can about Four’s whereabouts, but it seems that neither Mark nor Sarah knows where he and Six went when they left Paradise. It feels like something big is about to happen. The Garde and Mogs are coming out into the open. War is finally upon us.

There’s something else too. The FBI start following Mark and Sarah around. An agent gives Mark a contact number, which he then passes on to me. I call it, using a satellite phone and a voice changer just to ensure my anonymity. I get someone I recognize on the other end of the line.

Special Agent Purdy.

My blood starts to boil. I wish I could reach through the phone and smash in his nose again. Instead, I hang up and destroy the phone. Purdy seemed to have a fair amount of authority in Dulce, and I don’t want to risk him tracking me down using methods that I don’t know about. I can’t be too careful.

And then everything escalates very quickly. Sarah disappears. Mark freaks out. His concern and passion are unbridled, worn on his sleeve. He tries to find her any way he can, his desperation to uncover the truth about what’s been going on rivaling even my own. I find myself talking to him more and more—with far more frequency than with my other contacts. Maybe it’s because this has become personal for him too. I admire his passion.

During his investigations, he discovers print copies of a now-defunct newsletter called They Walk Among Us, a publication I’d been feeding information and funds to for years, working to expose the Mogs little by little. He suggests we change the website name to “They Walk Among Us” to attract the newsletter’s readers. I agree. It’s a good idea.

Unfortunately, Mark’s not always the smartest kid. His overzealousness is problematic. He pulls a stunt where he sneaks into the police department looking for clues and sees a Mog for himself—the FBI-and-Mog partnership in action. Mark likely should have ended up in their custody or dead, but with some kind of luck he managed to escape.

With Purdy’s laptop.

Mark messages me after he swipes it:

Mark: They’ve got Sarah in Dulce. At that secret base from TWAU!!

Mark: I’m going after her. I gotta. I’m leaving Paradise right now. We’re gonna bust this thing wide open.

I almost laugh. Of course that’s where she is.

I start to type back to him, warning him that Dulce is a no-go. That it’s too dangerous. But as I’m looking at my satellite feed from the base, I notice something strange. There’s a very subtle glitch in the bottom corner of the screen. I keep watching and realize that I’ve been looking at a loop of the same twenty seconds of footage over and over again from the satellite feed.

Shit. I curse myself. I don’t appear to have been hacked, but there’s no telling how long I’ve had the fake feed running on my monitor. Why? Was this just an ordinary precaution? Or is there something more to it?

It takes me a few minutes to find a way around the repeating video, and finally the current state of Dulce comes into view. There’s smoke rising from the base, and it looks like several buildings have collapsed.

Something has gone down very, very recently in Dulce. And I need to know what.

An idea forms in my head. Mark James is going to Dulce. It’s not like I’ll be able to talk him out of it. Not when Sarah is involved. I can help him along the way. Give him supplies. Guide him. In return he’ll tell me what the base is like now. What happened there.

Besides, if he gets taken into custody, he’ll need someone on the outside to try and save him.

And so I respond:

Me: Be careful. The place is probably crawling with Mogs and FBI agents. Don’t do anything stupid.

It only takes a few seconds for him to respond.

Mark: Wouldn’t dream of it.

It takes all of a few hours for Mark to get locked out of Purdy’s computer, and I curse myself for not immediately insisting that he send the damned thing straight to me. It’s probably the same sort of firewall that fried one of my computers in Oregon. We’re possibly kicked out of the machine for good—or at least until I can figure my way around Mog securities—so my focus turns to making sure Mark gets to the Dulce base alive so he can tell me what the hell has happened there. To ensure that this happens, I put together a little care package and meet him in person at a closed-down gas station on the Colorado–New Mexico border. I manage to get there only a few minutes before he does after driving through the night on my bike, going much, much faster than is either legal or safe. He wouldn’t be talked into waiting a few days, insisting on going straight to Dulce. Not that I blame him—it doesn’t seem like all that long ago that I was in his position.

I give him a box packed with supplies—even one of Raylan’s concussion/EMP grenades that I’ve been carrying around with me from base to base all these years—and have him sign a fake confirmation slip. I play the part of the courier.

He doesn’t think twice about the fact that I can’t be GUARD once he sees me. I’d been ready to play dumb, but I guess after referring to me as “dude” about a hundred times over the last few weeks, he never really gave any thought to the fact that his online partner might be female. I don’t correct him. If for some reason he ends up detained at Dulce and I can’t get him out, it’ll be in my best interest if he can’t identify me.

He looks different in person than in the photos I tracked down of him online. Strung out, with dark circles under his eyes. The events of Paradise and Sarah’s disappearance weigh on his face.

I find myself oddly concerned about him.

“You should get off the road and get some sleep,” I say. “You look like shit.”

I don’t hang around to converse. Instead, I check into a hotel on the Colorado side of the border and wait for him to report back. Part of me feels like I should have given him more warning, but I tell myself again that he’ll be fine. This isn’t like Zophie, when I left her alone, thinking that Janus could still be alive. Mark is well aware of the dangers he’s facing.

The sun is rising when I finally get a message from him. I’d just about given up hope that he was still a free man.

Mark: Dulce’s a bust. FBI is abandoning it. Sarah’s gone. I think John and others got her out.

Me: You got in and out and no one saw you? I’m impressed.

Mark: Nah. Ran in2 agent Walker from Paradise. She let me go. I think she’s turned against the Mogs.

If the Dulce base is being abandoned, now is the time for me to claim my ship. Assuming they didn’t move it while the video loop was in place. The thought fills me with warmth, my blood pumping through my veins. Plus, if the FBI agents at the base have turned on the Mogs, it means at least some of the humans are beginning to see that working alongside those monsters is a death sentence for the human race. They’re not just blindly following them.

Maybe there’s hope for this species after all, I think. And in doing so, I realize, perhaps for the first time, what respect I have for Mark. Someone who has been fighting for his friends and his planet this whole time. Trying to save his people from whatever horrible endgame the Mogs are trying to enact.

And here I’ve been, withholding information from him. Using him for my own means. As a pawn.

When it comes down to it, I’m no better than one of the Elders.

Maybe I can make up for that. I wonder what he’s going to do now that Sarah’s not where he thought she would be.

Me: Where are you going now?

Mark: No damn clue. Can’t go home. Bad FBI are still looking for me.

Perhaps it’s the rush of adrenaline pumping through me or that lingering pang of guilt for not being completely honest with him—for whatever reason, I feel like I owe it to Mark to help him. I can guide Mark from afar.

I message him back, instructing him to drive toward Alabama. I know just the place he can hide out for a while and continue his work: Yellowhammer Ranch. Only, it’s been a while since I’ve been on the property, so I tell him to take his time—that I’ll have a space set up for him just as soon as I get a few personal things in order. The last thing I need is Mark James wandering onto the grounds of Yellowhammer only to get blown up by a defensive trap I forgot to defuse.

CHAPTER NINE

I HEAD FOR DULCE. FOR MY SHIP.

I pass half a dozen black SUVs all speeding through the desert about five miles away from the perimeter of Dulce Base. I consider this fortuitous timing—if these are the FBI agents Mark mentioned, then they have indeed abandoned the place.

Still, I have my reservations about this operation. It’s a bright morning, for one thing, meaning I can’t rely on the cover of night, and the memory of what happened the last time I tried to infiltrate this base is fresh in my mind. But I won’t get another opportunity like this. Who knows how long it will be before the Mogs or the rest of the FBI realize that no one at this base is responding?

Besides, this time I’ve come prepared.

I pause at a section of the fence surrounding the base that’s been destroyed and take out some of the gear from my backpack—thermal-imagine binoculars that can sense heat signatures through six inches of steel. Nothing pops up on them. At least nothing that reads as a human or Mog. There are a few fires and lights I can make out, but nothing that suggests anyone is patrolling the base.

Regardless, I proceed with caution and park my bike near a pit that’s been created by the roof of the first underground floor of the base collapsing in on itself. I take a look around and note some burned-out Humvees and a knocked-down watchtower. Mark thinks the Garde broke Sarah out, and if that’s the truth, they certainly have grown strong.

I hop down into the base and pull out a small electronic tablet of my own design, part computer and part tracker—a device that can hone in on the frequencies of a Loric ship when within a certain range. I wasn’t sure it would work until now, but it pings, telling me that yes, Janus’s ship is still down here somewhere. Waiting for me.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

The agents must have left the place in a hurry, because every office I pass is disheveled, files strewn about. Several big computer terminals looks damaged, as if in leaving, the FBI didn’t want anyone else getting its information. That’s a concern I can understand. I’ll have to come back up and see what data I can harvest once I’ve found what I’ve actually come for.

I make my way down several floors. Eventually I get to a hallway that’s dark, lights all knocked out. It’s the only place I’ve been in the base where every door is shut. I make my way through the corridor slowly, on the tips of my toes, trying hard not to make a sound. I pass a door with a slit of a window in it, which I peer through carefully.

A man stares back at me.

He shouts, slamming his fists against the door. He’s got on a white button-down shirt spotted with blood. Suddenly, there’s banging from all the doors in the hallway, and I realize that I must have wandered into some sort of brig or detention area. The sound is deafening, echoing off the hard surfaces of the corridor and destroying all hopes of a stealthy exploration through the remainder of the base.

And so I start to run.

I pass a few laboratories and office spaces before finally flinging open a door that leads to it in all its silvery, beaten-up glory. The ship.

The vessel is big, the size of a house, but with the ability to glide and turn effortlessly through the air. The gleaming metal of its hull shines, even after all these years, made of a material native to Lorien. Its curves are all perfectly rounded, sleek and aerodynamic.

It takes my breath away.

There are all kinds of wires connected to the portion of the hull housing the crystals that supply power to the ship. I find a computer terminal on the opposite side of the room and tap on it, bringing the station to life—now that I’m here, it’s easy to break through their passwords. I try to find some sort of journal or report system, downloading everything I can to my own tablet along the way. From what I can tell, the researchers here have been trying to figure out how to duplicate the crystals’ energy to incorporate it into their own war machines. Their records show that they’ve managed to charge the spent crystals at least a little bit, but that’s all, and the charge only lasts for a short period of time. I doubt I could get out of Earth’s atmosphere on it.

That’s fine for now. At the moment I just want to get out of here.

With a little more searching, I find controls that appear to operate some sort of dock. I flip them on, and sixty feet above me the ceiling begins to part. Sand, dirt and debris fall in. I narrowly avoid a pile of bricks and what looks like a Humvee tire that come crashing down.

For a second I pause, shaking my head, thinking of how terrible it would be for me to die just as I’ve finally found this ship that I’ve been after for so long.

The hangar doors above me open fully. I take a few steps toward my prize and pause. I can still hear the whirring noise I’d thought was the door mechanism, getting louder.

It’s then that I see the edge of the Mogadorian ship just over the lip of the hangar. In seconds half a dozen pale, sneering faces are looking down at me, all pointing weapons in my direction.

I duck behind the computer station just as blaster fire starts to fill the air. Sparks rain down around me, burning my skin as the terminal is destroyed. I curse under my breath—hopefully these controls shorting out don’t overload the wires attached to the ship.

I’m too much of a target where I am. The quickest way to stay alive would be to try and cross the room and head back inside the base. At least there I’d have plenty of options for cover. But I have to assume that the Mogs are already starting to filter down through the hallways and stairwells of the facility, and without any idea of how many alien bastards have just landed on the ground level, the base could quickly turn into a death trap. Somewhere I could get boxed in too easily.

Besides, now that I’ve found this ship, I don’t intend to let it out of my sight.

So I reach into my backpack and pull out one of the many toys I’ve acquired and learned to use since the last time I came face-to-face with a Mogadorian: a powerful, compact submachine gun. Earth weapons might be crude and inefficient, but practicing out in the barns and woods around my many safe houses, I’ve witnessed exactly how devastating they can be.

If I can make it inside the ship and power it up, I may be able to get out of here alive. If not . . . Well, that’s not really an option. I think of Janus and Zophie, and how when I first arrived on this planet I thought for sure that the three of us would one day be riding in this ship together. Now the best I can do is reclaim it for them. For Lorien.

I brace myself as much as I can against the floor, peek over the top of the sparking computer terminal and fire away. A few of the Mogadorians who are descending a zigzag metal staircase from the surface are ripped apart, turning into wafts of dust that filter down into the hangar. The others take quick cover, and I use this moment of surprise to make a break for it, tossing my bag ahead of me and basically throwing myself under the ship in the center of the room, using it for cover. Blaster fire blackens the cement floor, barely missing me. But I make it, somehow.

I’m able to access a manual override switch to the boarding hatch. A metal ramp rolls out from the back of the craft. One of the Mogs from above jumps down, sliding over the ship and onto the ground. There’s a snap when he lands, and when he stands, one of his arms hangs limply at his side. That doesn’t stop him from staggering forward, firing at me. Several of his fellow troops follow his lead, and I barely manage to climb onto the ramp, firing blindly behind me the entire time. I run, trying to avoid their blasters, but a few shots hit my backpack. I’ve reinforced the thing with Kevlar, mostly to protect my laptop and gadgets inside, but it stops the shots from burning through my body. Still, the force sends me sprawling onto the ramp. I roll over and return fire, scooting as fast as I can towards a touch-screen panel on the wall just inside the ship. I dust one of the Mogs following me as I manage to tap on the screen and get the ramp to start closing in just a couple of seconds—the few years of training I had at the Lorien Defense Academy all coming back to me in a rush.

The other Mog on the ramp stumbles forward as it folds up. He gets thrown past me, deeper into the ship. The interior of the vessel can be programmed with all sorts of holographic partitions and “walls,” but right now it’s just one big, empty room. There’s no place for him to hide, and he’s a pile of ash before he ever manages to pick himself up off the ground.

I run to the front cabin. My hands fly over buttons and screens. In front of me, a Mog has climbed onto the nose of the ship and is hammering away at the tinted cockpit window with the butt of his blaster. He’ll have a hell of a time trying to break through the reinforced glass—I try not to pay any attention to him.

“Come on, come on, come on,” I chant to myself as the instruments start to flicker, going online. And then they come to life, as if goaded on by my will. The crystals still have some life in them.

I can feel the engines powering up, the reassuring hum and slight vibration that permeate the entire ship. I engage auto-launch protocols, which should at least get me up into the sky, where I can chart a course or take over the controls myself. The Mog on the windshield struggles to find his balance as the ship starts to shake and lift off the ground. He howls as he falls backwards, tumbling to the cement below.

It’s working, I think. I’m getting out of here.

My eyes widen as I get to the ground level. Sitting in front of me is the small Mogadorian ship I’d spotted from below, but also a large one that must be used to move troops around the planet—lots of troops. Mogs mill about around it, all their eyes on my silver craft. They freeze for only an instant before they start to fire. What looks like a cannon on the bigger ship turns towards me. Who knows what kind of firepower a vessel like that might have?

I flit through the on-screen menus in front of me until I find what appears to be a log of the ship’s weaponry. Most vessels on Lorien were unarmed, but I guess the Elders equipped this one with every possible armament it could carry. Weapons I’ve never even heard of before. I wonder, again, how far their planning went and how long they knew that the Mogs were coming for us. I don’t have long to reflect, though, because I’ve still got guns trained on me. And so I touch an icon that appears to be some sort of grenade projectile and target the enemy ship.

A small sphere of energy shoots from just below the cockpit. It sticks to the side of the rising Mogadorian vessel. Nothing happens.

Shit.

I can see the Mog cannon powering up, energy gathering around it. I tap on the weapons screen again.

“Don’t tell me you’re a dud, you son of a—”

The sphere explodes in a wave of energy that knocks back my own ship. The autopilot levels me off, and then I take over the controls and hit the accelerator, flying high into the sky, far, far above New Mexico, shouting at the top of my lungs as I dart through the air. I check my radar, but there’s no one following me. I swing the vessel around, surveying the damage from hundreds of feet above in the clear sky. The Mog ships don’t exist anymore. There’s nothing left to follow me—only blazing hunks of twisted metal.

Energy courses through me, filling my head with fuzzy warmth.

“We did it,” I say before I realize the words are even coming out of my mouth. “We have the ship.”

I’m not sure who I’m talking to, who the “we” is—if I’m addressing Zophie, or the other Garde spread across the planet, or even Mark, my unwitting partner in this Dulce operation.

On the way back I stop over at Yellowhammer Ranch, setting the ship down in the backyard by the dilapidated barn. The place looks untouched since the last time I saw it—if not a bit overgrown. I find one of the keys hidden in a sliding panel on the side of the house and go inside, pulling off some of the drop cloths that are still on the furniture. I reprogram the door to the secret office to open to Mark’s fingerprint, which I have on file thanks to the fingerprint ID system in the laptop I sent him charging into Dulce with.

Inside the office I take stock of the weapons organized on shelves against one wall, and then boot up the security system, checking to make sure all my cameras are still in operation. A few electronic trip wires and traps are still live around the ranch, but I disable them so that Mark isn’t met with an automated weapon upon his arrival. I can always teach him to reset them later, when he’s settled in.

I keep the bomb beneath the office primed, ready to be set off in the event that the safe house falls into enemy hands. Just in case.

This will make a nice home for Mark. At least for the time being. Until I can figure out what to do with him, or until he finally manages to get in contact with Sarah and the rest of the Garde.

I wonder if I should just wait here for him, to reveal myself to him in person. I have the ship, after all. Things are going well.

But I recognize this feeling. The thought that things are finally going my way and that everything’s falling into place. Every time I’ve allowed myself to be comforted by such hope, things have gone terribly wrong. People have died. My world shattered, needing to be rebuilt.

I just need a little more time. To patch up the ship and figure out my next move. And he needs to recoup too. I’m not ready to lead my protégé into battle. Not yet.

In the morning I’ll take the motorbike stored in the old barn into town and bring back a few fresh supplies for Mark: food, water, extra ammunition. A small gesture of thanks for being my first set of eyes on Dulce Base. For now, though, I scrawl a note in thick black marker on the back of a folder and set it beside a shotgun for him to find later.

I hope you’re ready for war.

-G

CHAPTER TEN

THE SHIP BARELY MAKES IT BACK TO MY ORCHARD base in Georgia. I fly beneath radar and try to stay in cloud cover as much as possible along the way. By this point, the acceleration is hardly faster than that of a car or motorcycle—the battery is almost dead. The crystals are fading.

I manage to get the ship parked in the big old pecan-processing plant in the back. I guess it’s technically now a hangar.

Most of my energy and resources are immediately focused on figuring out how to get—and keep—the ship up and running for good. I start installing various adapters and fuel lines I’ve created over the years, hoping that all my work hasn’t been for nothing. I go over the research I’ve swiped from the Dulce computers to see what the scientists have been doing to try and repower the drives. I manage to connect the crystal housings to an electrical output just like they’d done in Dulce. If nothing else, that should buy me a few days’ worth of power.

The only reason the ship doesn’t have my full attention is because one of my sensors picks up some strange activity on Mark James’s old burner cell phone. I’ve been monitoring his communications since I got involved with him on the website, just to keep tabs on him. It’s something I’ve done with everyone I’ve worked with from the blog—though Mark is definitely the person I’ve gotten closest to. It looks as though someone has sent him messages from “GUARD” telling him to meet up with them. Communications that definitely didn’t come from me.

Somewhere, Mark slipped up. The enemy has found him.

I try to warn Mark, but I’m too late. Fortunately, he manages to escape from a team of FBI agents still loyal to the Mogs, but at the cost of his gear, his truck and, from what I can tell, a bit of his mental stability. And he was shot in his arm as he fled the ambush, though he swears it’s just a flesh wound. He’s stressed out, lost and feeling hopeless. When I talk to him on the chat client I built for “They Walk Among Us,” he sounds depressed. I’m suddenly worried that he might give up, even after all he’s been through. And I can’t have that. Not now that I’ve gotten so used to him always being in touch. I realize that he’s the only person I talk to on a regular basis. He’s the closest thing I’ve had to a friend since Zophie died. So I do my best to try and remedy these things with a new vehicle and directions to Yellowhammer Ranch. That all seems to perk him up a bit.

At Yellowhammer, Mark connects Purdy’s stolen laptop to some computer equipment I left behind, allowing me to copy the entire contents of its hard drive to cloud storage. I isolate Purdy’s files and begin a full-fledged attack on their firewalls and security—cut off from the rest of the Mogadorian and FBI networks, I have no fear of being caught as I break into every hidden corner of his hard drive. What I discover is a wealth of information about MogPro and the specifics of the Mogadorian involvement with the US government. As I work, Mark finally manages to get in contact with Sarah. As Mark thought, she’d been traveling with the Garde. She’s an invaluable source of information, and the link to my people here on Earth that I’ve been searching for.

Things seems to be going smoothly.

Which is why I shouldn’t be surprised when everything falls apart.

I’m installing a new power line in the ship that will use the primitive fuel sources on this planet when I get a message from Mark saying that he’s screwed up and thinks the Mogs might have a lead on Yellowhammer. He asks if he should abandon it completely or go back for his notes and files. I tell him it’s his call.

He heads back to the ranch with Sarah to pack up. I’m left to wait for word from him. I pull up the cameras at Yellowhammer just in time to see him and Sarah rush inside and start packing.

Then everything goes black. I can’t reestablish a connection. All I’ve got are monitors full of static.

My heart falls into my stomach.

Every second that passes makes me more impatient, more worried that I should have told him to leave everything and run from Alabama. As I wait, I pull up a program on one of my monitors: the controls to the bomb planted underneath Yellowhammer Ranch. At what point should I assume the worst and detonate the fail-safe, keeping the Mogadorians from getting any of Mark’s notes? What if I set off the bomb too early and end up killing Mark and Sarah in the process? In that moment, alone in my safe house, all I want in the universe is to see Mark’s name appear on my cell phone. He’s been my eyes and ears for the past few months. We’ve been in constant contact.

I can’t lose him.

Nor can I believe that JOLLYROGER182, the “Aliens Anonymous” user who referred to Mogs as “janky-looking assholes from another planet” in his first message to GUARD, has become a valuable asset not only to the Loric cause, but to me personally.

The clock ticks. I stare at the button that will destroy Yellowhammer. I wonder if I have it in me to press it after all this time. Would I risk sacrificing Mark and Sarah to keep information from falling into Mog hands?

Relief bursts through my skull when my phone dings. It’s a text from Mark, saying they were attacked but are all right.

I call him back on one of my burners that has a voice modulator built in. My voice comes out electronic, distorted on his end of the line.

“How far are you and Sarah from the house?” I ask when he answers.

“I don’t know. Maybe a mile? I can still see it in—”

I click the button. There’s static on the line as Mark’s microphone picks up the sound of Yellowhammer Ranch exploding.

“That should take care of any Mogs remaining on the property and thoroughly wipe our tracks,” I say.

Mark doesn’t sound too thrilled about the fact that he’d been sitting on top of a bomb all this time, but I’m too focused on typing to pay much attention to his concern. Instead, I tap into his truck’s built-in GPS and input the coordinates to the Georgia safe house.

It’s time to move forward in the fight against the Mogs. To join my fellow Loric.

The first step is to finally reveal myself to Mark and Sarah.

When Mark and Sarah show up, they look stunned—likely due to a combination of seeing me, the ship and the automated weapons that target them when they trip my security system. The incredulous silence doesn’t last, though, as they begin to ask a million questions. I assess the situation and prioritize; Mark is feverish, and the bullet wound in his arm is completely infected. The first thing I do is give him a shot of the antibiotics I’ve got stashed away with other medical supplies. He’s fine with that. The next part, less so.

“Motherffffff—” He holds out the “f” as I splash the injury with rubbing alcohol.

“Is he okay?” Sarah asks. She stands a few feet away from me, and I can see the concern in her eyes, not just for Mark’s condition, but for the fact that someone she doesn’t know is treating it.

“He’ll be fine,” I say. “The antibiotics will do most of the work. He should be back to normal in a few days.”

“But I’ve got a big game tomorrow, Coach,” Mark says flatly.

“I’m confused,” Sarah says. She turns to Mark. “You didn’t know she was a woman? Or Loric?”

“I just thought that since GUARD was so good with computers . . . ,” Mark starts.

She narrows her eyes a little.

“What?” Mark asks. “Okay, yes, I just assumed she was a dude. My bad. I guess ‘GUARD’ is technically gender neutral.”

“You’re from Lorien.” Sarah says this more than asks.

I nod.

“And being older . . . you must have been there when the planet was attacked.”

I nod again, slower this time. Sarah’s face seems to soften.

“I was on a different ship than the chosen Garde,” I say. “There were only a few of us.”

“Ella . . . ,” she murmurs, and the name stops my heart.

“What do you know about her?” I ask, taking two long steps until I’m towering over Sarah. “Have you met her? Is she with Number Four?”

She shakes her head.

“The Mogs took her,” she says slowly.

I swallow hard. “And Crayton? Did they take him too?”

“Crayton,” Sarah whispers. It takes a few seconds for her to place the name. “No. I’m sorry. . . . He was killed a while ago. In Spain, right before Ella joined the others.”

The shock of all this must register on my face, because suddenly Sarah isn’t looking at me like she’s afraid I’m going pull a blaster on her. Instead, she’s got a hand on my back and a chair under me before I even realize that I’m sitting down.

“Of course,” she says. “I should’ve realized you didn’t know. You were on the other ship with them. Oh God, I’m sorry.”

My hands shake. I wonder how Crayton died—protecting Ella, no doubt. Where could she be now? What might they be doing to her? My hands shake as I try to figure out what to do next.

The Chimæra they call Bernie Kosar rubs against my legs in the form of a dog, staring up at me with a long tongue hanging out. His tail drums against the floor.

“I think he likes you,” Sarah says.

I crouch down, looking into his dark eyes.

“I knew many of your kind once,” I say, thinking back to those days that seem so long ago, when Zophie and Crayton and tiny baby Ella and I were all cooped up in our ship with a dozen Chimærae. “I hope to see more of you again one day.”

He lets out a little whine and licks a salty tear from the side of my face.

“Uh, if it’s any consolation,” Mark says, “it sounds like Ella turned out to be a total badass? Like, apparently she was at Dulce and caused some damage.”

She was at Dulce. When? How close was I to her?

I wipe my cheek with my sleeve and look over at Mark. He’s shifting on his feet, his forehead wrinkled with concern. I think he’s trying to make me feel better.

“Yeah, so, anyway,” he continues, nodding to the back of the hangar. “Maybe you could show us the inside of this thing? I’ve never been in a spaceship before.”

I smile a little. “Keep your eyes open, Jolly Roger, and maybe you’ll fly it one day.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“HOLY SHIT,” MARK SAYS AS WE STEP UP THE metal ramp and into the ship. “I mean . . . holy shit.”

“Wait until you see her at top speed,” I say. “If I can get her to run on Earth fuels.”

“Fingers crossed,” Sarah murmurs. Her eyes are wide as she looks around.

“Superstition won’t get this beauty up and running. I was just putting the finishing touches on the new fuel line when you two arrived. Let’s see if I was successful.”

“You mean we’re going to take off right now?” Mark asks.

“No. I’m just going to start up the engines, with any luck.”

He looks a little nervous.

I tap on the instrument panels when we get to the cockpit. They slowly flicker on. The ship hums to life around us.

“That seems like a good sign,” Sarah says.

“Here comes the real test,” I say.

I touch a few more of the controls. The ship slowly begins to lift off the ground. Beside me Mark clutches the back of one of the mounted chairs in front of the controls and whispers a dozen curses.

We’re a few feet off the floor and hovering inside the hangar when the entire craft starts to shake, then suddenly drops a few inches, causing my two human companions to cry out in alarm. But the ship recovers. It levels itself off until all systems look normal.

“By Lorien,” I murmur. “I think it’s going to work. The ship’s running off the fuel line I’ve installed, plus we have a few days of backup from the charged crystals.”

“That’s . . . good?” Sarah asks.

“It’s very good,” I say.

I set the ship back down and power off. Mark looks a little shaky on his feet. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“I think I should probably sit down,” he says.

Sarah touches his forehead. “His fever’s breaking.”

I take them back down and into what used to be the foreman’s office when the hangar was still a processing plant. Now it’s filled with computer equipment and monitors.

We start to trade information. We learn about each other.

I give Mark and Sarah an abbreviated rundown of my history, leaving out the parts about me using Mark or tracking all of his communications—though, by the look on his face, I’m guessing he’s figured that out by now. Sarah gets me up to date on the latest with the Garde, who they are and what Legacies they’ve manifested. She tells me everything she knows about the Mogs. It’s easier to get information now that I don’t have to use Mark as the middleman between us or avoid talking about my identity. I learn that not only has Malcolm Goode been found, but his son, Sam, has joined the fight. I can’t help but smile at this, to know that Malcolm has been reunited with that little boy from outside his office. I can’t say that they’re safe in the middle of all this, but at least they’re together.

I ask a lot of questions about the girl Ella has become and find out that she is a strong, sensitive young Garde. Just the kind of person I imagine Crayton would have wanted her to be. Sarah has spent a significant amount of time with her, and I can tell that she’s worried about Ella as she speaks. That she cares for her.

“Everything happened so fast in Chicago,” Sarah says, her eyes looking off into the middle distance. “Ella was having some kind of vision and then suddenly the Mogs were there. We were overpowered.”

“Mogadorian scum,” I mutter.

“We’ll get her back.” Mark grins a little. “And we’ll waste a bunch of those pale freaks along the way. Ashes to ashes. Dust to—”

“Really, Mark?” Sarah asks.

“What?” His eyebrows draw together for a second. Then he relaxes a little. “You’re right. I should have saved that for after we’d killed What’s-His-Ra or something.”

Sarah doesn’t say anything, just smirks a little and rolls her eyes.

She turns to one of the monitors at her side, one that’s tuned to a twenty-four-hour news station. Her eyes get wide, and several small sounds come from her mouth, but no actual words form.

“Oh, come on,” Mark says quietly, concerned. “It wasn’t that bad. Sarah?”

“Oh God,” she manages.

Several of my computers start beeping, telling me that something important has happened. That news is breaking.

“Sarah, what is it?” Mark is by her side in a few swift steps. And then he too is unable to form words.

It’s only when I join them that I realize what’s wrong.

A giant Mogadorian warship is hovering over New York City.

“It’s happening,” I murmur. “The invasion has begun.”

It’s not just New York; the ships are everywhere, over cities across the planet. We watch the news in shocked silence until Sarah’s satellite phone rings, and we all move at once. As Sarah speaks to Number Four, I spring into action, opening my laptop. Reporters are starting to talk about some sort of conference at the UN—something that’s been alluded to in MogPro documents I’d uncovered on Purdy’s computer but never really understood. This invasion is so much different from Lorien’s: there is no fire or missiles. At least, not yet.

“I think they’re going to pretend to be diplomatic about this,” I say.

“That would explain why they’ve cozied up to the government so much,” Mark agrees. He pulls a laptop out of his bag—the one I gave him back before he tried to get into Dulce—and starts typing.

“Get me everything damning you have about the US and the Mogs that you haven’t sent me. If the Mogs are going public, so are we. It’s time to tell this planet everything we know. I want this info on the front page of every website, every—”

“Way ahead of you,” he says with a grin. “I’m sending you a zip file that includes the worst of the worst of MogPro and a collection of the most relevant posts I did for ‘They Walk Among Us.’ Some I haven’t even proofed or uploaded yet.”

The files show up on my screen. They’re the perfect complement to the info bomb I’ve been putting together myself over the last few years.

“This is great, Mark.” I nod to him.

He shrugs. “I’m not letting these dickwads try to pull a fast one on the human race.”

“It sounds like the others are on the same wavelength,” Sarah says, hanging up from her call. “Sam just sent us some video. Footage of John using his powers to heal someone and some clips of Mogs shooting. I was thinking we could make a video or something to explain what’s happening?”

“That’s good,” Mark says. “We could link all this MogPro info from it. GUARD—I mean, Lexa—could you, I don’t know. . . . push a video to the front page of YouTube or something?”

“Easily,” I say. “You two focus on getting that ready. I’m going to take care of a few last-minute adjustments to this ship and make sure she’s ready for travel. And fully stocked—I’ve accumulated an arsenal of weapons here.”

Mark bangs his fist against the desk he’s set his laptop on.

“Dammit,” he says. “I was going to use that video of John going all Superman and jumping out of my burning house, but I can’t find it.”

“Of course not,” I say, tapping on my computer. “I scrubbed that video from the internet as soon as it came to my attention. I also managed to crash the cell phone it came from. Here, I just sent you a copy I saved for my records, along with some other images and footage I’ve collected over the years.”

As I start to walk away, I hear Sarah whisper to Mark.

“She’s good.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” he says back.

I start a final inspection on the new fuel line for the ship, trying to cram days of work into a few hours. I pause only when Sarah starts shouting, and I watch on television as fighting breaks out at the United Nations. Number Four is there, looking powerful and unwavering as he faces Setrákus Ra, the leader of the Mogadorians. Sarah is pale as she watches but doesn’t say anything. When the TV feed cuts out, she just nods.

“I’m ready to record the voice-over.”

They get back to work. So do I. Hours pass, and when I finally take a break for water and an energy bar I find Mark and Sarah still huddled around Mark’s laptop.

“Hey!” Mark says. “Come look at this!”

He and Sarah scoot apart as they bring up a video to full screen and hit play.

“This is our planet, but we are not alone in the galaxy.” Sarah’s voice comes through the speakers, cool and measured, as the video zooms out on a picture of the Earth. The footage switches to the YouTube clip of Number Four and then to him hovering his glowing hands over someone I hardly recognize as the secretary of defense. John appears to be healing him. Sarah continues.

“There are aliens among us. Good aliens. Refugees from the planet Lorien. This is John Smith, one of the Loric Garde—a boy blessed with incredible powers. He fights for Earth now. It’s his home.”

The video switches to clips of Mogadorians with blasters herding humans around on what look like the streets of New York.

“The ships above our cities now are not friendly. They are the Mogadorians—the bad aliens who destroyed John Smith’s home world. They have come here to enslave us and to take Earth for their own. They have even found allies in our own government.”

Various documents and bits of text pop up on the screen—I recognize them as MogPro files. The footage suddenly switches to a graphic showing the locations of the Mog warships. It looks like a screen grab Mark took from one of the news stations.

Sarah concludes: “We are not alone. They walk among us. We must join forces with the Loric and fight the Mogadorians.”

The video ends.

“So, if they click anywhere on the video, it takes them to the website and to all the files we’ve put together,” Mark says. “And there’ll be a link in the description, obviously. Do you think it’s okay?”

“It’s the best we can do on short notice,” Sarah says. She bites her lip as she stares at the screen.

“It’s great,” I say. “Upload it to ‘They Walk Among Us,’ in case the video gets pulled.”

When it’s uploaded, I manipulate a few lines of code and algorithms so that the video is at the top of every internet search and all over the front page of YouTube. The number of views skyrocket over the course of a few minutes, faster than the counters can keep up with. Even with everything that’s happening across the planet, the video spreads. Mark says it’s “gone viral.” In a world suddenly full of questions, we, for once, are able to offer some answers.

Before long it’s being shown on news stations across the globe.

I may have had doubts about many things on this planet, but the way information spreads here has proven to be more impressive than I could ever have imagined.

Mark continues tapping on his computer while Sarah tries futilely to get Number Four on her satellite phone. She never takes her eyes off the news. Night falls. I go back to working on the ship. Ideally I’d have some time to take it out for a few tests before storming into battle, but I don’t have that luxury now—not with warships parked over cities across the globe. Still, I take the time to triple-check my work and run every diagnostic test I can think of. The last thing we need is a systems failure in the middle of a fight with the Mogs.

It’s light outside when I’m finally satisfied with my work and come back out into the hangar. Mark is slumped over the desk, mouth open as he sleeps, snoring softly.

Sarah gives me a weak smile.

“He passed out while refreshing the view counts. I figured he could use the rest.” She stares at the phone in her hands, and it’s obvious she still hasn’t been able to get in contact with Number Four.

“From what I’ve seen of him, Number—John is quite the impressive Garde. I’m sure he’s still fighting.”

Sarah nods a little. “Yeah. Of course he is.”

She gets quiet, and it feels as though the energy has been sucked out of the room. After being alone for so long, I am perhaps not the best at small talk. And so I grab a couple of bottles of water from a mini fridge and slam one down next to Mark’s head. He jumps, springing to life.

“What? Where?” His eyes dart around and his breathing quickens until he remembers where he is. “Oh, right. What’d I miss?”

Sarah’s phone starts ringing before either of us can answer.

“It’s him,” she half shouts as she jumps to her feet. “He’ll know what’s going on in New York.”

“Right on cue,” Mark says through a yawn. “Our ET savior.”

Sarah answers on the third ring. Her face is bright—hopeful despite everything going wrong across the planet.

“John?” she asks, breathless, and the few seconds before the voice on the other end of the line responds are an eternity.

“All right.” Mark rolls his chair over to me. He stretches his arms over his head and cracks his neck. “What now?”

“I’ve waited years for this fight to arrive.” I point to the ship. “I say we join the rest of the Garde and show the Mogadorians what this old girl can do. There’s no use hiding in the shadows anymore.”

“Hell, yeah. Let’s kick some Mog ass.”

“It’s time we take the fight to them.” I turn to Mark. I can’t help but smile a little. “I want to see if Ella remembers me when we free her.”

EXCERPT FROM THE FATE OF TEN

DON’T MISS BOOK SIX IN THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING I AM NUMBER FOUR SERIES

CHAPTER ONE

WE RUN PAST THE BROKEN WING OF AN EXPLODED jet fighter, the jagged metal lodged in the middle of a city street like a shark’s fin. How long ago was it that we watched the jets scream by overhead, a course set for uptown and the Anubis? It feels like days, but it must only be hours. Some of the people we’re with—the survivors—they whooped and cheered when they saw the jets, like the tide was going to turn.

I knew better. Kept quiet. Only a few minutes later, we could hear the explosions as the Anubis blew those jets out of the sky, scattering pieces of Earth’s most sophisticated military all over the island of Manhattan. They haven’t sent any more jets in.

How many deaths is that? Hundreds. Thousands. Maybe more. And it’s all my fault. Because I couldn’t kill Setrákus Ra when I had the chance.

“On the left!” a voice shouts from somewhere behind me. I whip my head around, charge up a fireball without thinking about it, and incinerate a Mog scout as he comes around a corner. Me, Sam, the couple dozen survivors we picked up along the way—we barely break stride. We’re in lower Manhattan now. Ran here. Fought our way down. Block by block. Trying to put some distance between us and Midtown, where the Mogs are strongest, where we last saw the Anubis.

I’m exhausted.

I stumble. I can’t even feel my feet anymore, they’re so tired. I think I’m about to collapse. An arm goes around my shoulders and steadies me.

“John?” Sam asks, concerned. He’s holding me up. It sounds like his voice is coming through a tunnel. I try to reply to him, but the words don’t come. Sam turns his head and speaks to one of the other survivors. “We need to get off the streets for a while. He needs to rest.”

Next thing I know, I slump back against the wall of an apartment building lobby. I must have gone out for a minute. I try to brace myself, try to pull myself together. I have to keep fighting.

But I can’t do it—my body refuses to take any more punishment. I let myself slide down the wall so that I’m sitting on the floor. The carpet is covered in dust and broken glass that must’ve blown in from outside. There are about twenty-five of us huddled together here. These are all we could manage to save. Bloodstained and dirty, a few of them wounded, all of us tired.

How many injuries did I heal today? It was easy, at first. After so many, though, I could feel my healing Legacy draining my own energy. I must have hit my limit.

I remember the people not by name but by how I found them or what I healed. Broken-Arm and Pinned-Under-Car look concerned, scared.

A woman, Jumped-from-Window, puts her hand on my shoulder, checking on me. I nod to tell her I’m all right and she looks relieved.

Right in front of me, Sam talks with a uniformed cop in his fifties. The cop has dried blood all over one side of his face from a cut on top of his head that I healed. I forget his name or where we found him. Their voices sound far away, like they’re echoing down a mile-long tunnel. I have to focus my hearing to understand the words, and even that takes a colossal effort. My head feels wrapped in cotton.

“Word came in over the radio that we’ve got a foothold on the Brooklyn Bridge,” the cop says. “NYPD, National Guard, army . . . hell, everyone. They’re holding the bridge. Evacuating survivors from there. It’s only a few blocks away and they say the Mogs are concentrated uptown. We can make it.”

“Then you should go,” Sam answers. “Go now while the coast is clear, before another of their patrols comes through.”

“You should come with us, kid.”

“We can’t,” Sam replies. “One of our friends is still out there. We have to find him.”

Nine. That’s who we have to find. The last we saw him, he was battling Five in front of the United Nations. Through the United Nations. We have to find him before we can leave New York. We have to find him and save as many people as we can. I’m starting to come to my senses, but I’m still too exhausted to move. I open my mouth to speak, but all I manage to do is groan.

“He’s had it,” says the cop, and I know he’s talking about me. “You two have done enough. Get out with us now, while you can.”

“He’ll be fine,” Sam says. The doubt in his voice makes me grit my teeth and focus. I need to press on, to dig down and keep fighting.

“He passed out.”

“He just needs to rest for a minute.”

“I’m fine,” I mumble, but I don’t think they hear me.

“You’re gonna get killed if you stay, kid,” the cop tells Sam, sternly shaking his head. “You can’t keep this up. There’s too many for just you two to fight. Leave it to the army, or . . .”

He trails off. We all know the army already made their attempt. Manhattan is lost.

“We’ll get out as soon as we can,” Sam replies.

“You hear me down there?” The cop is talking to me now. Lecturing me in the same way Henri used to. I wonder if he’s got kids somewhere. “There’s nothing left for you to do here. You got us this far, let us do the rest. We’ll carry you to the bridge if we have to.”

The survivors assembled around the cop nod, murmuring in agreement. Sam looks at me, his eyebrows raised in question. His face is smeared with dirt and ash. He looks hollowed out and weak, like he’s barely standing himself. A Mog blaster hangs from his hip, hooked there by a chopped piece of electric cord, and it’s like Sam’s entire body slumps in that direction, the extra weight threatening to pull him over.

I force myself to stand up. My muscles are limp and almost useless, though. I’m trying to show the police officer and the others that I’ve got some fight left in me but I can tell by the pitying way they’re staring at me that I don’t look very inspiring. I can barely keep my knees from shaking. For a moment, it feels like I’m going to crash down to the floor. But then something happens—I feel like a force is lifting and pulling me, supporting some of my weight, straightening my back and squaring my shoulders. I don’t know how I’m doing this, where I’m finding the strength. It’s almost supernatural.

No, actually, it’s not supernatural at all. It’s Sam. Telekinetic Sam, concentrating on me, making it look like I’ve still got some gas left in the tank.

“We’re staying,” I say firmly, my voice scratchy. “There are more people to save.”

The cop shakes his head in wonder. Behind him, a girl that I vaguely remember rescuing from a collapsing fire escape bursts into tears. I’m not sure if she’s inspired or if I just look terrible. Sam remains completely focused on me, stone-faced, a fresh bead of sweat forming on his temple.

“Get to safety,” I tell the survivors. “Then, help however you can. This is your planet. We’re all going to save it together.”

The cop strides forward to shake my hand. His grip is like a vise. “We won’t forget you, John Smith,” he says. “All of us, we owe you our lives.”

“Give them hell,” someone else says.

And then all at once the rest of the group of survivors are blurting out their good-byes and their gratitude. I grit my teeth in what I hope is a smile. The truth is, I’m too tired for this. The cop—he’s their leader now, he’ll keep them safe—he makes sure everyone keeps it quiet and quick, eventually hustling them out of the apartment building’s lobby and onto the Brooklyn Bridge.

As soon as we’re alone, Sam releases me from the telekinetic grip he was using to hold me upright and I slump backwards against the wall, struggling to keep my feet under me. He’s out of breath and sweating from the exertion of keeping me standing. He’s not Loric and he’s had no proper training, yet somehow Sam has developed a Legacy and begun using it the best he can. Considering our situation, he’s had no choice but to learn on the fly. Sam with a Legacy—if things weren’t so chaotic and desperate, I’d be more excited. I’m not sure how or why this happened to him, but Sam’s newfound powers are pretty much the only win we’ve had since coming to New York.

“Thanks,” I say, the words coming easier now.

“No problem,” Sam replies, panting. “You’re the symbol of the Earth’s resistance; we can’t have you laying around.”

I try to push off from the wall, but my legs aren’t ready yet to support my full weight. It’s easier if I just lean against it and drag myself towards the nearest apartment door.

“Look at me. I’m not the symbol of anything,” I grumble.

“Come on,” he says. “You’re exhausted.”

Sam puts his arm around me, helping me along. He’s dragging too, though, so I try not to put much weight on him. We’ve been through hell in the last few hours. The skin on my hands still tingles from how much I’ve had to use my Lumen, tossing fireballs at squad after squad of Mog attackers. I hope the nerve endings aren’t permanently singed or something. The thought of igniting my Lumen right now makes my knees nearly buckle.

“Resistance,” I say bitterly. “Resistance is what happens after you lose a war, Sam.”

“You know what I meant,” he replies. I can tell by the way his voice shakes that it’s a strain for Sam to stay optimistic after everything we’ve seen today. He’s trying, though. “A lot of those people knew who you were. They said there was some video of you on the news. And everything that happened at the UN—you basically unmasked Setrákus Ra in front of an international audience. Everyone knows you’ve been fighting against the Mogadorians. That you tried to stop this.”

“Then they know that I failed.”

The door to the first-floor apartment is ajar. I shove it the rest of the way open and Sam closes and locks it behind us. I try the nearest light switch, surprised to find that the electricity is still on here. Power seems to be spotty throughout the city. I guess this neighborhood hasn’t been badly hit yet. I turn the lights off just as quickly—in our current condition, we don’t want to attract the attention of any Mogadorian patrols that might be in the area. As I stumble towards a nearby futon, Sam moves around the room closing curtains.

The apartment is a small one-room studio. There’s a cramped kitchen cordoned off from the main living space by a granite counter, a single closet and a tiny bathroom. Whoever lives here definitely left in a hurry; there are clothes spilled across the floor from a hasty packing job, an overturned bowl of cereal on the counter and a cracked picture frame near the door that looks like it was crushed underfoot. In the picture, a couple in their twenties pose in front of a tropical beach, a small monkey perched on the guy’s shoulder.

These people had a normal life. Even if they made it out of Manhattan and to safety, that’s over now. Earth will never be the same. I used to imagine a peaceful life like this for Sarah and me once the Mogs were defeated. Not a tiny apartment in New York City, but something simple and calm. There’s an explosion in the distance, the Mogs destroying something uptown. I realize now how naïve those life-after-war dreams were. Nothing will ever be normal after this.

Sarah. I hope she’s okay. It was her face that I called to mind during the roughest parts of our block-by-block battle through Manhattan. Keep fighting and you’ll get to see her again, that’s what I kept telling myself. I wish I could talk to her. I need to talk to her. Not just Sarah, but Six too—I need to get in touch with the others, to find out what Sarah learned from Mark James and his mysterious contact, and to see what Six, Marina and Adam did in Mexico. That has to have something to do with why Sam suddenly developed a Legacy. What if he’s not the only one? I need to know what’s happening outside of New York City, but my satellite phone was destroyed when I fell into the East River and the regular cell phone networks are down. For now, it’s just me and Sam. Surviving.

In the kitchen, Sam opens the fridge. He pauses and glances over to me.

“Is it wrong if we take some of this person’s food?” he asks me.

“I’m sure they won’t care,” I reply.

I close my eyes for what feels like a second but must be longer, opening them only when a piece of bread bumps against my nose. With one hand extended theatrically like a comic book character, Sam telekinetically floats a peanut butter sandwich, a plastic container of applesauce and a spoon in front of my face. Even feeling down and out as I am, I can’t help but smile at the effort.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you with the sandwich,” Sam says as I pluck the food out of the air. “I’m still getting used to this. Obviously.”

“No worries. It’s easy to shove and pull with telekinesis. Precision’s the hardest part to learn.”

“No kidding,” he says.

“You’re doing amazing for someone that’s had telekinesis for all of four hours, man.”

Sam sits down on the futon next to me with his own sandwich. “It helps if I imagine that I have, like, ghost hands. Does that make sense?”

I think back to how I trained my own telekinesis with Henri. It seems like so long ago.

“I used to visualize whatever I focused on moving, and then will it to happen,” I tell Sam. “We started small. Henri used to toss me baseballs in the backyard and I’d practice catching them with my mind.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think playing catch is really an option for me right now,” Sam says. “I’m finding other ways to practice.”

Sam floats his sandwich up from his lap. He initially brings it too high for him to bite, but gets it at mouth level after a second more of concentration.

“Not bad,” I say.

“It’s easier when I’m not thinking about it.”

“Like when we’re fighting for our lives, for instance?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, shaking his head in wonder. “Are we going to talk about how this happened to me, John? Or why it happened? Or . . . I don’t know. What it means?”

“Garde develop Legacies in their teens,” I say, shrugging. “Maybe you’re just a late bloomer.”

“Dude, have you forgotten that I’m not Loric?”

“Neither is Adam, but he’s got Legacies,” I reply.

“Yeah, his gross dad hooked him up to a dead Garde and . . .”

I hold up a hand to stop Sam. “All I’m saying is that it’s not so cut-and-dry. I don’t think Legacies work the way my people always assumed.” I pause for a moment to think. “What’s happened to you has to have something to do with what Six and the others did at the Sanctuary.”

“Six did this . . . ,” Sam says.

“They went down there to find Lorien on Earth; I think they did it. And then, maybe Lorien chose you.”

Without even realizing it, I’ve already devoured the sandwich and applesauce. My stomach growls. I feel a little better, my strength starting to come back to me.

“Well, that’s an honor,” Sam says, looking down at his hands and thinking it over. Or, more likely, thinking about Six. “A terrifying honor.”

“You did good out there. I couldn’t have saved all those people without you,” I reply, patting Sam on the back. “The truth is, I don’t know what the hell is going on. I don’t know how or why you suddenly developed a Legacy. I’m just glad you have it. I’m glad there’s a little hope mixed into the death and destruction.”

Sam stands up, pointlessly brushing some crumbs off his dirt-caked jeans. “Yeah, that’s me, the great hope for humanity, currently dying for another sandwich. You want one?”

“I can get it,” I tell Sam, but when I lean forward to get off the futon, I’m immediately woozy and have to sink back down.

“Take it easy,” Sam says, playing it off like he didn’t notice what a mess I am. “I got the sandwiches covered.”

“We’ll just hang here for a few more minutes,” I say groggily. “Then we’ll go track down Nine.”

I close my eyes, listening to Sam clatter around in the kitchen, trying to spread peanut butter with a telekinetically held knife. In the background, always in the background now, I can hear the steady thunder of fighting somewhere else in Manhattan. Sam’s right—we’re the resistance. We should be out there resisting. If I can just rest for a few more minutes . . .

I don’t open my eyes until Sam shakes me by the shoulder. Immediately, I can tell that I’ve dozed off. The light in the room is changed, the streetlights coming on outside, a warm yellow glow under the curtains. A plate stacked with sandwiches waits on the couch next to me. I’m tempted to dive right in and chow down. It’s like all my urges are animal now—sleep, eat, fight.

“How long was I out for?” I ask Sam, sitting up, feeling a little better physically but also feeling guilty for sleeping when there are people dying all over New York.

“About an hour,” Sam replies. “I was going to let you rest, but . . .”

In explanation, Sam gestures behind him, towards the small flat-screen television attached to the room’s far wall. The local news is actually broadcasting. Sam’s got the volume muted and the picture occasionally gives way to bursts of static, but there it is—New York City burning. Grainy footage shows the looming hulk of the Anubis crawling across the skyline, its side-mounted cannons bombarding the uppermost floors of a skyscraper until there’s nothing left but dust.

“I didn’t even think to check if it was working until a few minutes ago,” Sam says. “I figured the Mogs would’ve knocked out the TV stations for, you know, war reasons.”

I haven’t forgotten what Setrákus Ra said to me as I dangled from his ship over the East River. He wants me to watch Earth fall. Thinking even further back, to that vision of Washington, D.C., which I shared with Ella, I remember that city looking pretty busted up, but it wasn’t completely razed. And there were survivors left over to serve Setrákus Ra. I think I’m beginning to understand.

“It’s not an accident,” I say to Sam, thinking out loud. “He must want the humans to be able to see the destruction he’s bringing down. It’s not like on Lorien where his fleet just wiped everyone out. That’s why he tried putting on that big show at the UN, it’s why he tried all that shadowy MogPro shit to bring Earth under his control peacefully. He’s planning to live here afterwards. And if they’re not going to worship him like the Mogs do, he at least wants his human subjects to fear him.”

“Well, the fear thing is definitely working,” Sam replies.

On-screen, the news has switched to a live shot of an anchor at her desk. The building that houses this channel has probably taken some damage from the fighting because it looks like they’re barely keeping themselves on the air. Only half the lights are on in the studio and the camera is cockeyed, the picture not as sharp as it should be. The anchor is trying to keep up a professional face, but her hair is caked with dust and her eyes are red-rimmed from crying. She speaks directly into the camera for a few seconds, introducing the next piece of footage.

The anchor disappears, replaced by shaky video shot with a cellular phone. In the middle of a major intersection, a blurry figure spins round and round, like an Olympic discus thrower warming up. Except this guy’s not holding a discus. With inhuman strength he’s whipping around another person by the ankle. After a dozen spins, the guy lets go of the curled-up body, flinging it through the front window of a nearby movie theater. The video stays centered on the thrower as, shoulders heaving, he yells out what’s probably a curse.

It’s Nine.

“Sam! Turn it up!”

As Sam gropes for the remote, whoever’s filmed Nine dives behind a car for cover. It’s disorienting as hell, but the cameraman manages to keep recording by sticking one hand above the car’s trunk. A group of Mogadorian warriors have appeared in the intersection, blasting away at Nine. I watch as he dances nimbly aside, then uses his telekinesis to fling a car in their direction.

“. . . again, this is footage taken in Union Square just moments ago,” the shaky-voiced anchor is saying as Sam turns up the volume. “We know this apparently superpowered, um, possibly alien teenager was at the UN scene with the other young man identified as John Smith. We see him here engaged in combat with the Mogadorians, doing things not humanly possible . . .”

“They know my name,” I say, quietly.

“Look,” Sam says, hitting my arm.

The camera has panned back to the movie theater, where a burly form slowly rises from the shattered window. I don’t get a good look at him, but I immediately know exactly who Nine was throwing around. He flies up from the movie theater window, slashes through the few Mogs still in the intersection and then careens violently into Nine.

“Five,” Sam says.

The camera loses track of Five and Nine as they plow through the grass of a small nearby park, churning up huge chunks of dirt as they go.

“They’re killing each other,” I say. “We have to get over there.”

“A second extraterrestrial teenager is fighting the first, at least when they’re not fighting off the invaders,” the anchor says, sounding baffled. “We . . . we don’t know why. We don’t have many answers at all at this point, I’m afraid. Just . . . stay safe, New York. Evacuation efforts are ongoing if you have a safe route to the Brooklyn Bridge. If you’re near the fighting, keep inside and—”

I take the remote from Sam and turn off the TV. He watches me as I stand up, checking to make sure I’m all right. My muscles howl in protest and I’m dizzy for a second, but I can push through. I have to push through. Never has the expression “fight like there’s no tomorrow” had more meaning. If I’m going to make this right—if we’re going to save Earth from Setrákus Ra and the Mogadorians, then the first steps are finding Nine and surviving New York.

“She said Union Square,” I say. “That’s where we go.”

CHAPTER TWO

THE WORLD HASN’T CHANGED. AT LEAST, NOT that I can tell.

The jungle air is humid and sticky, a welcome change from the cold dampness of the Sanctuary’s subterranean depths. I have to shield my eyes as we emerge into the late afternoon sun, ducking one by one through a narrow stone archway that’s appeared in the Mayan temple’s base.

“They couldn’t have let us come in that way?” I grumble, cracking my back and glancing over to the hundreds of fractured limestone steps we climbed earlier. Once we were at the top of Calakmul, our pendants activated some kind of Loric doorway that teleported us to the hidden Sanctuary beneath the centuries-old human-built structure. We found ourselves in an otherworldly room obviously created by the Elders on one of their visits to Earth. I guess secrecy was a higher priority than ease of access. Anyway, the way out wasn’t such a hike and didn’t involve any disorienting teleportation—just a dizzying hundred yards of dusty spiral staircase and a simple door that, of course, wasn’t there when we first entered.

Adam exits the Sanctuary behind me, his eyes narrowed to slits.

“What now?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I tell him, looking up at the darkening sky. “I was sorta counting on the Sanctuary to answer that.”

“I . . . I’m still not sure what we saw in there. Or what we accomplished,” Adam says hesitantly. He pushes some loose strands of black hair out of his face as he watches me.

“Me neither,” I tell him.

Truth be told, I’m not even sure how long we were beneath the earth. You lose track of time when you’re deep in conversation with an otherworldly being made of pure Loric energy. We had scraped together as many pieces of our Inheritance as the Garde could spare—basically, anything that wasn’t a weapon. Once inside the Sanctuary, we dumped all those unexplained stones and trinkets into a hidden well connected to a dormant Loralite energy source. I guess that was enough to wake up the Entity, the living embodiment of Lorien itself. We chatted.

Yeah. That happened.

But the Entity basically spoke in riddles and, at the end of our talk, the thing went supernova, its energy flooding out of the Sanctuary and into the world. Like Adam, I’m not sure what it all meant.

I’d expected to emerge from the Sanctuary and find . . . something. Maybe jagged bolts of Loric energy streaking through the skies, on their way to incinerate the nearest Mogadorian not named Adam? Maybe some more juice to my Legacies, putting me on a level where I’d be able to whip up a storm big enough to wipe out all our enemies? No such luck. As far as I know, the Mogadorian fleet is still closing in on Earth. John, Sam, Nine and the others could be rushing towards the front lines right now, and I’m not sure we’ve done anything to help them.

Marina is last through the temple’s door. She hugs herself, her eyes wide and watery, blinking in the sunlight.

I know she’s thinking about Eight.

Before the energy source went rocketing into the world, it somehow managed to resurrect him, if only for a few fleeting minutes. Long enough for Marina to say good-bye. Even now, already starting to sweat in the oppressive jungle heat, I get chills thinking about Eight returned to us, awash in the Loralite glow, smiling again. It was the kind of intensely beautiful moment I’ve hardened myself to over the years—this is war, and people are going to die. Friends are going to die. I’ve come to accept the pain, to take the ugliness for granted. So it can be a little stunning when something good actually happens.

Comforting as it was to see Eight again, it was still saying good-bye. I can’t imagine what Marina’s going through. She loved him and now he’s gone. Again.

Marina stops and glances back at the temple, almost like she might go back inside. Next to me, Adam clears his throat.

“Is she going to be okay?” he asks me, his voice low.

Marina shut down on me once before, back in Florida, after Five betrayed us. After he killed Eight. This isn’t the same—she isn’t radiating a constant field of cold, and she doesn’t look like she’s on the verge of strangling whoever comes close. When she turns back to us, her expression is almost serene. She’s remembering, storing that moment with Eight away and steeling herself for what’s to come. I’m not worried about her.

I smile as Marina blinks her eyes and wipes a hand across her face.

“I can hear you,” she replies to Adam. “I’m fine.”

“Good,” Adam says, awkwardly looking away. “I just wanted to say, about what happened in there, uh, that I . . .”

Adam trails off, both Marina and I looking at him expectantly. Being a Mog, I think he still finds it a little uncomfortable to get too personal with us. I know he was amazed by the Loric light show inside the Sanctuary, but I could also tell he felt like he didn’t belong, like he wasn’t worthy enough to be in the presence of the Entity.

When Adam’s pause stretches on, I pat him on the back. “Let’s save the heart-to-heart for the ride, okay?”

Adam seems relieved as we walk back towards our Skimmer, the ship parked alongside a dozen other Mog crafts on the nearby landing strip. The Mog encampment in front of the temple is exactly the way we left it—trashed. The Mogs that were trying to break into the Sanctuary had cleared jungle in a precise ring around the temple, getting as close to the temple as the Sanctuary’s powerful force field would allow.

It isn’t until we cross from the vine-strewn overgrowth of the land directly in front of the temple to the scorched brown soil of the Mog camp that I realize the force field is gone. The deadly barrier that protected the Sanctuary for years is no more.

“The force field must have shut down while we were inside,” I say.

“Maybe it doesn’t need protection anymore,” Adam suggests.

“Or maybe the Entity diverted its power elsewhere,” Marina replies. She pauses for a moment, thinking. “When I kissed Eight . . . I felt it. For a split second, I was part of the Entity’s energy flow. It was spreading out everywhere, all through the Earth. Wherever the Loric energy went, now it’s spread thin. Maybe it can’t power its defenses here.”

Adam gives me a look, like I should be able to explain what Marina just said.

“What do you mean it spread through the Earth?” I ask.

“I don’t know how to explain it better than that,” Marina says, gazing back at the temple, now cast half in shadow by the setting sun. “It was a feeling like I was one with Lorien. And we were everywhere.”

“Interesting,” Adam says, eyeing the temple and then the ground beneath his feet with a mixture of caution and awe. “Where do you think it went? Are your Legacies . . . ?”

“I don’t feel any different,” I tell him.

“Me neither,” Marina says. “But something has changed. Lorien is out there now. On Earth.”

It’s definitely not the tangible result I was hoping for, but Marina seems so upbeat about it. I don’t want to rain on her parade. “I guess we’ll see if anything’s changed back in civilization. Maybe the Entity’s out there kicking ass.”

Marina glances back at the temple. “Should we leave it this way? Without protection?”

“What’s left to protect?” Adam asks.

“There’s still at least some of the, uh, the Entity left in there,” Marina replies. “Even now, I think the Sanctuary is still a way to . . . I don’t know, exactly. Get in touch with Lorien?”

“We don’t have a choice,” I reply. “The others will need us.”

“Wait a second,” Adam says, looking around. “Where’s Dust?”

With everything that happened inside the Sanctuary, I completely forgot about the Chimæra we left outside the temple to stand guard. There’s no sign of the wolf anywhere.

“Could he have gone into the jungle looking for that Mog woman?” Marina asks.

“Phiri Dun-Ra,” Adam replies, naming the trueborn that survived our initial assault. “He wouldn’t just go off on his own like that.”

“Maybe the Sanctuary’s light show scared him off,” I suggest.

Adam frowns, then cups both his hands around his mouth. “Dust! Come on, Dust!”

He and Marina fan out, searching for any sign of the Chimæra. I climb onto our Skimmer to get a better look at the surrounding area. From up here, something catches my eye. A gray shape squirming out from beneath a rotten log at the edge of the jungle.

“What’s that?” I yell, pointing the writhing form out to Adam. He races over, Marina right behind him. A moment later, Adam carries the small shape over to me, his face twisted with concern.

“It’s Dust,” Adam says. “I mean, I think it is.”

Adam holds a gray bird in his hands. It’s alive but its body is stiff and twisted, like it suffered from an electric shock and never recovered from the spasms. His wings jut out at odd angles and his beak is frozen half-open. Even though this is nothing like the powerful wolf we left behind just a short time ago, there’s a quality that I immediately recognize. It’s Dust, for sure. Bad as he looks, his black bird eyes dart around frantically. He’s alive, and his mind is working, but his body isn’t responding.

“What the hell happened to him?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Adam says, and for a moment I think I see tears in his eyes. He steadies himself. “He looks . . . he looks like the other Chimæra did right after I rescued them from Plum Island. They were experimented on.”

“It’s okay, Dust, you’re okay,” Marina whispers. She gently smoothes down the feathers on his head, trying to calm him. She uses her Legacy to heal most of the scratches that cover him, but it doesn’t release Dust from the paralysis.

“We can’t do anything more for him here,” I say. I feel bad, but we need to keep moving. “If that Mog did this to him, she’s long gone. Let’s just get back to the others. Maybe they’ll have ideas about what to do.”

Adam brings Dust on board the Skimmer and wraps him in a blanket. He tries to make the paralyzed Chimæra as comfortable as possible before he sits down behind the ship’s controls.

I want to get in touch with John, find out how things are going outside the Mexican jungle. I retrieve the satellite phone from my pack. While he begins powering up the ship, I call John.

The phone rings endlessly. After about a minute, Marina leans forward to look at me.

“How worried should we be that he’s not answering?” she asks.

“The normal amount of worried,” I reply. I can’t help but glance down at my ankle. No new scars—as if I wouldn’t have felt the searing pain. “At least we know they’re still alive.”

“Something’s not right,” Adam says.

“We don’t know that,” I reply quickly. “Just because they can’t answer right this second doesn’t mean—”

“No. I mean with the ship.”

When I take the phone away from my ear, I can hear the strange stuttering noise the Skimmer’s engine is making. The lights on the console in front of me flicker erratically.

“I thought you knew how to work this thing,” I say.

Adam scowls, then angrily flips down switches on the dashboard, powering the ship off. Beneath us, the engine rattles and clangs, like something’s not catching.

“I do know how to work this thing, Six,” he says. “It’s not me.”

“Sorry,” I reply, watching as he waits for the engine to settle before powering the ship up again. The engine—Mogadorian technology that should be deathly silent—once again burps and spasms. “Maybe we should try something besides turning it off and on again.”

“First Dust, and now this. It doesn’t make sense,” Adam grumbles. “The electronics are still working. Well, everything except for the automated diagnostic, which is exactly what would tell us what’s wrong with the engine.”

I reach over and hit the button that opens up the cockpit. The glass dome parts above our heads.

“Let’s go have a look,” I say, standing up from my seat.

We all climb back out of the Skimmer. Adam jumps down to inspect the ship’s underside, but I remain atop the hood, next to the cockpit. I find myself gazing at the Sanctuary, the ancient limestone structure casting a long shadow thanks to the setting sun. Marina stands next to me, silently taking in the view.

“Do you think we’re going to win?” I ask her, the question just popping out. I’m not even sure I want an answer.

Marina doesn’t say anything at first. After a moment, she rests her head on my shoulder. “I think we’re closer today than we were yesterday,” she says.

“I wish I knew for sure that coming down here was worth it,” I say, clutching the satellite phone, willing it to ring.

“You need to have faith,” Marina replies. “I’m telling you, Six, the Entity did something . . .”

I try to trust in Marina’s words, but all I can think about are the practicalities. I wonder if the flood of Loric energy from the Sanctuary was what screwed up our ride in the first place.

Or maybe there’s a simpler explanation.

“Hey, guys?” Adam calls from beneath the ship. “You better come take a look at this.”

I hop down from the Skimmer, Marina right behind me. We find Adam wedged between the metal struts of the landing gear, a bent panel of the ship’s armored underbelly in the dirt at his feet.

“Is that our problem?” I ask.

“That was already loose,” Adam explains, kicking the dislodged piece. “And look at this . . .”

Adam motions me closer, so I slide in next to him, getting an intimate look at the inner workings of our ship. The Skimmer’s engine could probably fit under the hood of a pickup truck, but it’s a lot more complicated than anything built here on Earth. Instead of pistons or gears, the engine comprises a series of overlapping spheres. They spin fitfully when Adam pushes against them, ticking uselessly against the exposed ends of some thick cables that run deeper into the ship.

“See, the electrical systems are still intact,” Adam says, flicking the cables. “That’s why we still have some power. But that’s not enough alone to get the antigravity propulsion going. These centrifugal rotors here?” He runs his hand over the overlapping spheres. “They’re what gets us off the ground. Thing is, they aren’t broken either.”

“So you’re telling me the Skimmer should work?” I ask, my eyes glazing over as I stare at the engine.

“It should,” Adam says, but then he waves his hand in some empty space between the rotors and the wires. “Except you see that?”

“I have no idea what the hell I’m looking at, dude,” I tell him. “Is it broken?”

“There’s a conduit missing,” he explains. “It’s what transfers the energy generated by the engines to the rest of the ship.”

“And you’re telling me it didn’t just fall out.”

“Obviously not.”

I take a few steps out from underneath the Skimmer and scan the nearby tree line for any movement. We already killed every Mog that was trying to break into the Sanctuary. All except for one.

“Phiri Dun-Ra,” I say, knowing that the Mog is still out there. We were too focused on getting into the Sanctuary to bother going after her earlier, and now . . .

“She sabotaged us,” Adam says, reaching the same conclusion I have. Phiri Dun-Ra did a number on Adam when we arrived, beat him up pretty good and was about to try roasting his face on the Sanctuary’s force field before we got the drop on her. He still sounds pretty bitter about it. “She took out Dust and then she stranded us here. We should’ve killed her.”

“It’s not too late,” I reply, frowning. I don’t see anything in the trees, but that doesn’t mean Phiri Dun-Ra isn’t out there watching us.

“Couldn’t we replace the part with one from another ship?” Marina asks, motioning to the dozen or so Mog scout ships spaced out along the landing zone.

Adam grunts and shoves out from underneath our Skimmer. He strides towards the nearest ship, his left hand on the handle of a Mog blaster he took off one of the warriors we killed.

“I bet all these ships have engine panels that look just like ours,” Adam grumbles. “I hope it at least hurt her messed-up hands.”

I remember Phiri Dun-Ra’s bandaged hands, scarred from coming into contact with the Sanctuary’s force field. We should’ve known better than to leave one of them alive. Even before Adam reaches the nearest ship, I’ve got a sinking feeling.

Adam ducks underneath the other ship, examining it. He sighs and makes eye contact with me before gently elbowing the armored hull above his head. The engine panel falls away like there was nothing holding it in place.

“She’s toying with us,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. “She could’ve taken a shot at us when we left the Sanctuary. Instead, she wants to keep us here.”

“She knows she can’t take us by herself,” I say, raising my voice a little, thinking maybe I can bait Phiri Dun-Ra out of hiding.

“She removed these parts, right?” Marina asks. “She didn’t just destroy them?”

“No, it looks like she took them,” Adam replies. “Probably doesn’t want to be responsible for destroying a bunch of ships in addition to getting her squadron killed. Although, keeping us here long enough for reinforcements to capture and kill us would probably get her a pass from her Beloved Leader.”

“No one’s getting captured or killed,” I say. “Except Phiri Dun-Ra.”

“Is there any other way to get our ship moving?” Marina asks Adam. “Could you . . . I don’t know? Rig something up?”

Adam scratches the back of his neck, looking around at the other ships. “I suppose it’s possible,” he says. “Depends what we can scrounge together. I can try, but I’m not a mechanic.”

“That’s one idea,” I say, looking up at the sky to see how much daylight we have left. Not much. “Or, we could go out into that jungle, track down Phiri Dun-Ra and get our part back.”

Adam nods. “I prefer that plan.”

I look at Marina. “What about you?”

I don’t even have to ask. The sweat on my arms tingles—she’s radiating an aura of cold.

“Let’s go hunting,” Marina says.

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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.

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THE LORIEN LEGACIES BY PITTACUS LORE

NOVELS

I AM NUMBER FOUR

THE POWER OF SIX

THE RISE OF NINE

THE FALL OF FIVE

THE REVENGE OF SEVEN

THE FATE OF TEN

NOVELLAS

THE LOST FILES #1: SIX’S LEGACY

THE LOST FILES #2: NINE’S LEGACY

THE LOST FILES #3: THE FALLEN LEGACIES

THE LOST FILES #4: THE SEARCH FOR SAM

THE LOST FILES #5: THE LAST DAYS OF LORIEN

THE LOST FILES #6: THE FORGOTTEN ONES

THE LOST FILES #7: FIVE’S LEGACY

THE LOST FILES #8: RETURN TO PARADISE

THE LOST FILES #9: FIVE’S BETRAYAL

THE LOST FILES #10: THE FUGITIVE

THE LOST FILES #11: THE NAVIGATOR

THE LOST FILES #12: THE GUARD

THE LOST FILES #13: LEGACIES REBORN

NOVELLA COLLECTIONS

THE LOST FILES: THE LEGACIES (CONTAINS NOVELLAS #1–#3)

THE LOST FILES: SECRET HISTORIES (CONTAINS NOVELLAS #4–#6)

THE LOST FILES: HIDDEN ENEMY (CONTAINS NOVELLAS #7–#9)

THE LOST FILES: REBEL ALLIES (CONTAINS NOVELLAS #10–#12)

COPYRIGHT

I AM NUMBER FOUR: THE LOST FILES: THE GUARD. Copyright © 2015 by Pittacus Lore. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub Edition © July 2015

ISBN: 9780062364036

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FIRST EDITION

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