The Revenge of Seven

  But I’m pretty sure it’s ‘Oops.’

  At the entrance of the hotel, one Mogadorian is down on his knees, clutching his head. The other two are pointing right at our SUV and raising their blasters.

  So much for the element of surprise.

  20

  With the way my ears are ringing, I don’t really hear the first volley of Mogadorian blaster fire. But I feel it. The SUV is rocked to the side as the jagged energy bolts shear across the car’s bulletproof paneling. Walker huddles for cover behind her door, keeping her head down. Our driver isn’t so lucky; a blast comes sizzling through the window and hits him in the side of the neck. His flesh is burned badly and he immediately starts convulsing.

  ‘Go!’ I shout, unable to hear myself and not sure if anyone else can either. ‘Go!’

  Nine rips open the back door of the SUV, literally. As he gets out of the car, he holds the door in front of him, using it as a shield to absorb the Mogs’ fire.

  I lunge into the front seat and press my hands on to the FBI agent’s blaster wound, letting my warm healing energy flow into him. Slowly, the injury begins to knit itself closed, and his convulsions stop. The agent looks up at me with wide, grateful eyes.

  I sense movement to my left and turn my head. Outside the driver-side window is the pedestrian who got knocked down when Nine’s thunderclap went off. She’s a pretty, college-aged girl with big brown eyes. She looks shell-shocked and seems to be rooted in place – except she’s not so stunned that she failed to get her phone out of her purse. She’s just finished recording me healing our driver and is filming my face as I shout at her to run.

  Another volley of Mog blaster fire bounces over the hood of our SUV, nearly hitting the girl. Sam springs out of the backseat and grabs her. He drags her farther down the sidewalk and puts her in cover behind some parked cars.

  Months ago, my face on video after using my Legacies would’ve been a disaster. But now, I don’t even care. However, we can’t let any more innocent people wander into our war zone.

  ‘Turn the car!’ I shout in our driver’s ear. I’m not sure he can hear me, so I make a steering wheel motion with my hands. ‘Block the street off!’

  He gets it and peels out – I can smell the burned rubber but don’t quite hear it. He gets the car parked perpendicular across the middle of the road, blocking any traffic.

  I hop out of the SUV and turn towards the hotel just in time to see a Mogadorian warrior sheared in half and turned to dust by our car door, which Nine flung through the air discus style. Meanwhile, the agents in the second car have managed to collect themselves. Seeing our maneuver, their driver throws his SUV into reverse and they quickly block access to the road from the other direction. Then, they jump out, using their SUV as cover, and return fire on the remaining Mogadorians. Their gunfire is barely audible popping in my damaged ears.

  One of the Mogs keels over from a well-placed bullet to the forehead. Outnumbered, the remaining Mog ducks into the hotel doorway for cover. I reach out with my telekinesis, grab a luggage cart parked behind the Mog and jerk it forward so that it takes out the back of his legs. As he stumbles out of the doorway, Walker’s agents light him up.

  Nine glances back to me and I nod. Together, we rush towards the entrance. I look over my shoulder to check on Sam and see him still talking to that bystander, gesturing emphatically at her cell phone. No time to worry about that now.

  Inside, the posh hotel lobby is completely deserted except for a frightened clerk cowering behind the front desk. Beyond the marble columns and leather couches of the waiting area is the elevator bank. Oddly, two of the three elevators are out of service, and the third is stuck up at the penthouse level. The Mogs might not have expected an assault, but they definitely took precautions.

  With a moment to catch my breath, I press my hands to the sides of my head and let some of that healing energy flow into my ears. They pop and crackle, but sound slowly returns, like a volume dial in my head being gradually turned up. From outside, I can hear sirens, screeching tires, and Walker’s people yelling at local cops to stay back. Our plan to do this covertly is already shot; now we just have to be quick.

  I grab Nine before he can make it to the elevators and clap my hands to the side of his head, healing him as well. When I’m done, he shakes his head back and forth, like he’s trying to dislodge water from his inner ear.

  ‘You’re an idiot,’ I tell him.

  Nine shakes the sonic gloves at me before stuffing them in his back pocket. ‘At least now we know what they do.’

  Seeing that we aren’t gun-toting Mogadorians, the guy at the front desk slowly comes out of hiding. He’s skinny and middle-aged, and from the bags under his eyes, he looks as if he’s having one terrible day.

  ‘What – what is going on?’ the clerk asks us.

  Before we can answer, Walker strides through the door. She flashes the clerk her badge and then shouts, ‘What floor is Sanderson on?’

  The wide-eyed clerk glances from Walker to us and then back. ‘Pent-penthouse,’ he stammers. ‘Those-those things you killed are with him. They cleared out the entire hotel this morning except for me and some of the staff. And I’m not even a manager.’

  Nine stares at the clerk, trying to make sense of him. ‘Why would they keep you around?’

  ‘They’ve been ordering room service,’ he responds incredulously, his voice squeaky. ‘Acting like they own the place and we’re their servants.’

  ‘That’s some ballsy shit,’ Nine says, shaking his head. ‘Like they’ve already taken over or something.’

  Walker squints at the clerk like she could strangle him, then turns to me, her voice still incredibly loud. ‘Goddamn it. I can’t hear this guy.’

  I wave her over and press my hands to her ears. While I’m healing Walker, I look over at the clerk. ‘You should get out of here. Go outside very slowly, with your hands up. We’ll send out anyone else we come across.’

  The clerk nods mutely, then begins taking baby steps towards the exit, his hands raised above his head.

  Walker shakes off my hands as soon as her hearing is back. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said we’re going up,’ I reply, pointing to the elevator.

  ‘Actually,’ Nine says, ‘they’re coming down.’

  The hotel’s one working elevator has begun to descend, the little lights above ticking off the floors. I light my Lumen, the whoosh of flames feeling good. Walker adjusts her grip on her pistol.

  ‘Easy, guys,’ Nine says. ‘I’ve got this.’

  Nine picks up one of the leather sofas and holds it like a battering ram. Walker and I both step aside, giving him room. When the elevator dings and the doors slide apart, the four Mogadorians sent downstairs to reinforce the ones we’ve already dispatched are greeted by Nine screaming and shoving a sofa into them. One of them manages to get a burst of blaster fire off, but it sizzles harmlessly against the floor. The entire unit is pinned inside the elevator, the centermost Mog crushed outright behind Nine’s weight. Walker easily darts around Nine and picks the Mogs off with her handgun.

  ‘That still doesn’t make up for the whole glove thing,’ I tell Nine as he effortlessly tosses the sofa back into the lobby.

  ‘Come on,’ Nine complains, grinning. ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘Are there any other alien gadgets I need to be aware of?’ Walker asks as we pile into the elevator and hit the button for the top floor.

  ‘Well, there’s this,’ Nine replies, and pulls a string of three emerald-green stones out of his pocket. I remember that thing from before – when Nine throws it, the string creates a miniature vacuum, sucks up whatever’s close and then spits it violently back out. He must have taken it out of his Chest before turning over the rest of his Inheritance to Marina and Six.

  ‘What does that do?’ Walker asks.

  ‘You’ll see,’ I reply, looking at Nine. ‘You know there will be more waiting for us outside the elevator, right?’

&n
bsp; ‘My thoughts exactly,’ he replies, grinning.

  I pull Walker close so that we’re pressed against the side of the elevator, right up against the buttons. Nine takes cover against the opposite wall, lazily swinging his string of stones like a bolo.

  ‘You might need to hold on to me,’ I tell Walker. ‘You’ve seen how Nine does with gadgets.’

  ‘Hey,’ Nine says, wounded. ‘This one I actually know how to work.’

  Seconds later, the elevator doors open and a barrage of blaster fire hammers the elevator’s back wall, the Mogs up here adopting a strategy of shoot first and ask questions later. Without poking his head out of cover, Nine tosses the strand of stones outside the elevator.

  I imagine Nine’s weapon working like it did back at the cabin – the beads hovering in a perfect circle, spinning slowly forward, sucking up anything in their path. I can hear the whoosh of air, followed by Mogadorian screams, and a lot of futile shooting. Glass breaks as framed pictures are torn from the hallway walls, the pieces sucked into the miniature vacuum.

  Nine snaps his fingers and everything the vacuum collected explodes outward. Violently expelled from the suction, one Mogadorian comes flying into the elevator. His head smashes hard against the back wall, his neck broken. Outside, everything is quiet.

  When it’s over, I stick my head outside the doors. The air is filled with swirling dust particles that might be Mogadorian remains. A blaster that somehow became wedged against the ceiling clatters to the floor. Aside from that, the only thing in the hallway is a room-service cart that looks like it’s gone through a grinder, its legs bent and twisted. There’s only one door at the end of the short hallway, the one for the penthouse, and it’s now half broken off its hinges.

  ‘What the hell was that thing?’ Walker asks, incredulous.

  ‘The Mogs aren’t the only ones with kick-ass weaponry,’ Nine says, picking up the harmless-looking stone strand from where it landed on the floor.

  ‘Don’t get any ideas,’ I say to Walker when I catch her craning her neck to get a look at the stones. ‘Our technology isn’t for sale.’

  Walker frowns at me. ‘Yeah, well, judging by that bullshit with the gloves, you don’t know how to work it anyway.’

  From the broken doorway up ahead, I hear the droning of a television. It’s turned to cable news, I think, some talking head rambling on about stock prices. Other than that, the hallway is totally quiet. There isn’t any sign of more Mogadorians. Even so, we advance cautiously towards the penthouse door.

  Wary of an ambush, I nudge the door with my telekinesis before we get too close. It comes off the hinges easily and falls into the penthouse with a thud. The living room inside is dark, all the curtains drawn, and lit only by the blue glow of the television.

  ‘Come on in,’ a gravelly voice calls from inside. ‘There’s no one in here who can hurt you.’

  ‘That’s Sanderson,’ Walker whispers.

  I exchange a quick look with Nine. He shrugs and waves towards the door. I go first, Nine right behind me and Walker bringing up the rear.

  The first thing I notice is a damp, moldy smell in the hotel room. It smells like rot with an undercurrent of minty, old-man joint cream. A map of New York City is spread across the table in the suite’s dining area, notes in Mogadorian scribbled at various locations. Next to the table is a knocked-over chair, as if someone got up in a hurry. There are also Mogadorian cannons propped up against one wall along with some dark canvas backpacks of gear – I notice a laptop, a few cell phones and a thick leather-bound book.

  None of that interests me as much as the old man seated at the edge of the suite’s slept-in king-size bed. He watches the TV through the open bedroom doorway, maybe too weak to walk himself into the penthouse’s living room.

  ‘Goddamn, dude,’ Nine exclaims, upon seeing Sanderson. ‘What is wrong with you?’

  I’ve seen a lot of pictures of Bud Sanderson over the last few days. The first was on They Walk Among Us, Sanderson as an old man with thinning white hair, jowls and a paunch. On the website, in a tabloid-style story I didn’t think too much about, Mark James accused Sanderson of using some kind of Mogadorian anti-aging treatment. The next time I saw Sanderson was in Agent Walker’s file, having lunch with a disguised Setrákus Ra, hale and hearty, silver hair full and slicked back, looking like he might jog a few miles after his Cobb salad.

  The Sanderson in front of me doesn’t look like either of those pictures. Nine and I walk into the bedroom to get a closer look, Walker lingering behind. The secretary of defense is a frail old man, his hunched body wrapped up in a puffy hotel robe. The right side of his face looks saggy and collapsed – his eye socket droops, and his jawline disappears beneath folds of loose skin. His white hair is badly thinned, a comb-over barely managing to hide a smattering of age spots. He smiles at us – or maybe it’s a grimace – his teeth yellow, gums receding. In the open neck of his robe and along his forearms, I notice some prominent veins that are discolored black.

  ‘Number Four and Number Nine,’ Sanderson says, pointing a shaky finger at me and then Nine. He doesn’t seem offended at all by Nine’s grossed-out reaction, doesn’t even seem to have noticed. ‘Your pictures have been crossing my desk for years. Furtive shots from security cameras and the like. I practically watched you boys grow up.’

  Sanderson sounds like a reminiscent, doddering grandfather. I’m completely taken aback. I’d been expecting a sellout politician to try hitting me with talking points on Mogadorian Progress. This guy barely looks capable of getting up from his bed, much less giving a speech in front of the UN.

  ‘And you …’ Sanderson tilts his head to get a look at Walker. ‘You’re one of mine, aren’t you?’

  ‘Special Agent Karen Walker,’ she replies, stepping into the doorway. ‘Not one of yours. I serve humanity now, sir.’

  ‘Well, that’s nice,’ Sanderson says dismissively. He doesn’t seem at all interested in her. The way his beady, black eyes settle on Nine and me, like we’re his long-lost relatives gathered around his deathbed, makes me seriously uncomfortable. Even Nine has slipped into an awkward silence.

  I notice a small kit on the bed next to Sanderson. It contains a few sleek syringes filled with a dark liquid that reminds me vaguely of Piken blood.

  I take a step towards him, my voice low. ‘What did they do to you?’

  ‘Nothing I didn’t ask for,’ Sanderson replies, sadly. ‘I wish you boys would have found me sooner. Now it’s too late.’

  ‘Like hell,’ Nine says.

  ‘Even if you kill me, it won’t make any difference,’ Sanderson rasps, resignedly.

  ‘We’re not here to kill you,’ I reply. ‘I don’t know what they’ve told you, what they’ve filled your mind and body with, but we’re not done fighting.’

  ‘Oh, but I am,’ Sanderson replies, and pulls a small handgun out of his robe’s front pocket. Before I can stop him, he holds the pistol next to his temple and pulls the trigger.

  21

  If I’d had time to think about it, I probably wouldn’t have been able to do it.

  There’s about a millimeter of space between Bud Sanderson’s temple and the barrel of his gun. It’s in that space that I manage to stop the bullet, holding it there with my telekinesis. The precision required makes me grunt from exertion. Every muscle in my body is tensed, my fists clenched and toes curled. It’s like I flung my entire body into stopping that bullet.

  I can’t believe I just did that. I’ve never done anything so precise before.

  A ring-shaped burn from the pistol’s barrel forms on Sanderson’s temple, but otherwise his head is totally intact.

  It takes until the pistol’s report stops echoing for the secretary of defense to realize his suicide attempt didn’t work. He blinks his watery eyes at me¸ not quite understanding why he’s still alive.

  ‘How –?’

  Before Sanderson can pull the trigger again, Nine lunges forward and slaps the gun out of his hand. I exhal
e very slowly and allow my body to uncoil.

  ‘That’s not right,’ Sanderson says to me accusingly, his lower lip shaking as he rubs his wrist where Nine struck him. ‘Just let me die.’

  ‘Seriously,’ Walker interjects, her hands tightening around her own gun. ‘Why’d you stop him? Could’ve solved all our problems right there.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have solved anything,’ I say, shooting her a look as I let the bullet drop harmlessly on to Sanderson’s unmade bed.

  ‘He’s right,’ Sanderson says to Walker, his shoulders slumping. ‘Killing me won’t change anything. But keeping me alive is simply cruel.’

  ‘You don’t get to decide when you check out, old man,’ I tell Sanderson. ‘When we win this war, we’ll let the people of Earth decide how they deal with traitors.’

  Sanderson chuckles dryly. ‘The optimism of youth.’

  I crouch down to look him in the face. ‘There’s still time to redeem yourself,’ I say. ‘To do something of value.’

  Sanderson raises an eyebrow, and his eyes seem to focus up a bit. But then the right side of his mouth droops and he has to wipe away a blob of drool with the cuff of his robe. Looking utterly defeated, Sanderson averts his eyes.

  ‘No,’ he says quietly. ‘I think not.’

  Nine sighs from boredom and picks up the kit of syringes laid out next to Sanderson. He studies the tar-colored sludge inside the injector for a moment, then waves it in Sanderson’s face.

  ‘What is this shit they’re giving you, huh?’ Nine asks. ‘This what you traded the planet for?’

  Sanderson peers longingly at the vials but then weakly shoves them away.

  ‘They healed me,’ Sanderson explains. ‘More than that. They made me young again.’

  ‘And look at you now,’ Nine grunts. ‘Fresh as a daisy, right?’

  ‘You know their leader has lived for centuries,’ Sanderson counters, his eyes swinging wildly between me and Nine. ‘Of course you do. He promised us that. He promised immortality and power.’