The Revenge of Seven

  ‘What if one of them dies while we’re on this mission of yours?’ Sam asks, his voice cracking a little at the thought. ‘What if they die because we didn’t rescue them when we had the chance?’

  Adam pauses, thinking this over. ‘I know this must be hard for you,’ he says, looking between me and Sam. ‘I admit, it’s a calculated risk.’

  ‘Calculated risk,’ I repeat. ‘Those are our friends you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Adam replies. ‘And I’m trying to help keep them alive.’

  Logically, I know Adam really is trying to help. But I’m stressed and I’ve been brought up not to trust his kind. Before I know what I’m doing, I take a step towards him and jab a finger into his chest.

  ‘This better be worth it,’ I tell him. ‘And if something happens in Florida …’

  ‘I’ll take responsibility,’ he replies. ‘It’ll be on me. If I’m wrong, John, you can dust me.’

  ‘If you’re wrong, I probably won’t need to,’ I say, staring into his eyes. Adam doesn’t look away.

  Sarah loudly whistles between her fingers, getting everyone’s attention.

  ‘If we can put the whole macho posturing thing on hold for a second, I think you guys should take a look at this.’

  I step around Adam, telling myself to cool down, and look over Sarah’s shoulder at the website she’s pulled up.

  ‘I was looking up news stories about Chicago and this popped up,’ she explains.

  It’s a pretty slick-looking website, except for the all-caps headlines and sheer amount of flying saucer GIFs cluttering the sidebars. The stories listed under Most Popular, all of the links in a neon green that I guess is supposed to look alien, include: MOGADORIANS UNDERMINING GOVERNMENT and EARTH’S LORIC PROTECTORS DRIVEN INTO HIDING. The page Sarah currently has open features a picture of the burning John Hancock Center along with the headline MOG ATTACK IN CHICAGO: IS THIS THE ZERO HOUR?

  The website is called They Walk Among Us.

  ‘Oh jeez,’ Sam groans, joining the huddle around Sarah’s computer. ‘Not these creeps.’

  ‘What is this?’ I ask Sarah, squinting at the story on the screen.

  ‘These dudes used to be strictly into the old-school black-and-white zine style,’ Sam says. ‘Now they’re on the internet? I can’t decide if that makes them better or worse.’

  ‘The Mogs killed them,’ I point out. ‘How does this even exist in any form?’

  ‘I guess there’s a new editor,’ Sarah says. ‘Check this out.’

  Sarah clicks into the website’s archives, going back to the first story ever posted. The headline reads PARADISE HIGH SCHOOL ATTACK START OF ALIEN INVASION. Below that is a grainy cell-phone picture of the destruction around our high school’s football field. I quickly skim the article. The level of detail is astounding. It’s like whoever wrote this was there with us.

  ‘Who’s JollyRoger182?’ I ask, looking at the screen name credited in the post.

  Sarah looks up at me with an odd smile, bewilderment mixing with something like pride.

  ‘You’re going to think I’m crazy,’ she says.

  ‘What’s a Jolly Roger, anyway?’ Sam asks, thinking out loud. ‘The pirate flag?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sarah replies, nodding. ‘Like the Paradise High Pirates. Whose old quarterback happens to be one of the only other people outside our group to know what went down at the high school.’

  I widen my eyes at Sarah. ‘No way.’

  ‘Yes way,’ she replies. ‘I think JollyRoger182 is Mark James.’

  3

  ‘ “The Mogadorians, along with their cronies from the corrupted branches of national security, are believed to have fought a protracted battle in New Mexico against the heroic Garde,” ’ Sam reads aloud. ‘ “My sources believe the Mogadorians were forced to retreat after their leader sustained an injury. The whereabouts of the Garde remain unknown.” ’

  ‘He’s right on the money,’ Malcolm says, turning to me. ‘But where is he getting his information?’

  ‘No idea,’ I reply. ‘We didn’t exactly stay in touch after Paradise.’

  I lean over Sam’s shoulder to check out the next story. I’m baffled by the amount of information Mark James – or whoever this is – has posted to They Walk Among Us. There are details of our battle at Dulce Base, early speculation about the attack in Chicago, frightening essays about what Mogs look like and what they’re capable of, and posts rallying humanity in support of the Loric. There are also articles covering topics that I’ve never considered, even ones about which members of the U. S. government are in league with the Mogadorians.

  Sam clicks through to a story where Mark accuses the secretary of defense, a man named Bud Sanderson, of using his political clout to pave the way for a Mogadorian invasion. Another click yields a second article about Sanderson, one with the tabloid-friendly headline CORRUPT S.O.D. USING MOGADORIAN GENETIC TREATMENTS. The story is tied to an image of Sanderson from five years ago juxtaposed with one of him from a few months ago. In the first, Sanderson looks like a haggard man in his late seventies – his face is age-spotted and he has a double chin and a steep paunch. In the second, he’s lost weight and has a healthy glow and a full head of silver hair. It’s almost as if he’s time-traveled. In fact, I bet most people would think the picture was a hoax, like it’s a photo of Sanderson from twenty years ago with a fake time stamp. But if you take Mark at his word, something’s definitely changed with the secretary of defense – something way bigger than diet and exercise, or even plastic surgery.

  Sam shakes his head, not buying it. ‘How would Mark possibly know all this? I mean, Sarah, you went out with him. Did he even know how to read?’

  ‘Yes, Sam,’ Sarah replies, rolling her eyes. ‘Mark could read.’

  ‘But he was never, uh, journalistically inclined, was he? This is like WikiLeaks over here.’

  ‘People tend to change when they find out aliens are real,’ Sarah responds. ‘It looks to me like he’s been trying to help.’

  ‘We don’t know for sure that it’s Mark,’ I say, frowning.

  I look over at Adam. He’s been quiet since we started exploring the They Walk Among Us website, listening to us with a hand on his chin, thoughtful.

  ‘Could this be some kind of trap?’ I ask him, figuring it’s best to consult the expert.

  ‘Of course,’ he says without hesitation. ‘Although if it is, it’s an elaborate one. And, even for the sake of trapping you, I find it hard to believe Setrákus Ra would admit to being driven off from Dulce Base.’

  ‘Is it true?’ Malcolm asks. ‘What he’s written about the secretary of defense?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Adam replies. ‘It very well could be.’

  ‘I’m going to email him,’ Sarah announces, opening up a new browser tab.

  ‘Hold on,’ Adam says quickly, a bit more polite than when he slammed my idea to try rescuing the others. ‘If this Mark person really does have access to all this highly secret intel –’

  Sam chuckles.

  ‘– my people will almost certainly be monitoring his communications,’ Adam concludes, raising an eyebrow at Sam. He turns back to Sarah. ‘They’ll also definitely be monitoring your email.’

  Sarah slowly lifts her hands away from the keyboard. ‘Can’t you do anything about that?’

  ‘I know how their cyber-tracking systems work. It was something I … excelled at during my training. I could write an encryption code, reroute our IP address through servers in different cities.’ Adam turns to me, like he wants permission. ‘They’d unravel it eventually. We’d have to leave this place within twenty-four hours to be safe.’

  ‘Do it,’ I tell him. ‘Better that we keep moving, anyway.’

  Adam immediately begins typing commands into his laptop. Sam rubs his hands together and leans over Adam’s shoulder. ‘You should reroute them to as many crazy places as possible. Make them think Sarah’s in Russia or something.’

  Adam smirks. ?
??Consider it done.’

  It takes Adam about twenty minutes to write some code that will reroute our IP address through a dozen far-flung locations. I think back to the elaborate computer system Henri always had set up and the even more complicated grid that Sandor built in Chicago. Then, I imagine a hundred Mogadorians, just like Adam, hunched over keyboards, stalking us. I never doubted our Cêpans were justified in their paranoia, but seeing Adam work I finally realize just how necessary it was.

  ‘Whoa,’ Sarah says when she’s finally able to open her email. The list of boldfaced unread mail consists entirely of messages from Mark James. ‘It really is him.’

  ‘Or the Mogs hacked his email,’ Sam suggests.

  ‘Doubtful,’ Adam replies. ‘My people are thorough, sure, but this seems kind of … roundabout.’

  I glance over the email headings – lots of exclamation points and capital letters. A few months ago the idea of Mark James spamming my girlfriend would’ve gotten under my skin, but now it seems like our rivalry was something that happened to someone else, something from another life.

  ‘When was the last time you checked this?’ I ask.

  ‘Weeks ago? I don’t really remember,’ Sarah replies. ‘I’ve been a little busy.’

  She opens the most recent message from Mark and we all lean in to examine the contents.

  Sarah –

  I don’t know why I keep sending these emails. Part of me hopes that you’re reading them, using them to help the Loric, and can’t reply for your own safety. Another part of me worries that you aren’t even out there, that you’re gone. I refuse to believe that but …

  I need to hear from you.

  I thought I had a lead on you in New Mexico. All I found there was a deserted military base. It looked like a major battle went down. Way bigger and nastier than what happened in Paradise. I hope you guys got out safe. I hope like hell I’m not the only one left to fight these assholes. That would suck.

  A friend of mine set up a safe house for me. Way off the grid. A place where we can work on exposing those pale freaks to the world. If you can get in touch, I’ll find a way to send you the coordinates. We’re on to something big. Something international. I don’t even know what to do with it.

  If you’re reading these, if you’re still in contact with John, now would be a really good time to show up. I need your help.

  – Mark

  Sarah turns to me, her eyes wide with sudden passion, face set determinedly – I’ve seen that look before, know it well. It’s the look she gives me right before telling me she wants to do something dangerous.

  Without her even saying anything, I already know that Sarah wants to find Mark James.

  The dashboard clock reads 7:45. We’ve got fifteen minutes until the bus leaves for Alabama.

  I’ve got fifteen minutes left with Sarah Hart.

  Fifteen minutes was about how long it took Adam to encrypt Sarah’s email against any Mogadorian hackers. She got off a quick note to Mark, who replied almost immediately with an address for a restaurant in Huntsville. He told Sarah he’d watch the place for the next few days and, if she really was Sarah Hart, he’d pick her up there and spirit her off to his secret hideout. At least Mark’s being careful, I told myself. That gives me confidence that Sarah will be safe. After that brief communication, Adam immediately wiped both email accounts from the internet.

  Now, here we are.

  We’re parked in front of the bus station in downtown Baltimore, the place bustling with activity even at sunset. I’m behind the wheel, Sarah in the passenger seat next to me. We fit right in, just two teenagers sitting in a crappy car, in the middle of saying good-bye.

  ‘I keep waiting for the part where you try talking me out of going,’ Sarah says, her smile a little sad. ‘You’ll say it’s too dangerous, we’ll argue, you’ll lose and I’ll end up going anyway.’

  ‘It is dangerous,’ I reply, turning so I can face Sarah. ‘And I don’t want you to go.’

  ‘That’s more like it.’

  She takes my hand, lacing her fingers through mine. With my other hand, I run my fingers through her hair, eventually letting them rest gently on the back of her neck. I pull her in a little closer.

  ‘But it’s no more dangerous than staying here with me,’ I finish.

  ‘That’s the overprotective John I know and love,’ she replies.

  ‘I’m not –’ I start to protest, but cut myself off when I see her teasing smile.

  ‘These good-byes never get any easier, do they?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. They really don’t.’

  We fall silent, holding tight to each other, watching the minutes on the dashboard clock slowly blink away.

  Back at the textile factory, we didn’t need to have a huge discussion about Sarah going to find Mark James. Everyone seemed to agree that it was the right thing to do. If Mark really had managed to acquire some crucial information on the Mogadorians, and if he was risking his life to help us, then we needed to return the favor. But the rest of the Garde was still missing. And Adam’s plan to strike the Mogadorian stronghold in D.C. seemed more and more like the smartest play, a necessary strike to gather intelligence and show those bastards that we were still in this fight. There’s too much happening for us to put all our resources into catching up with Mark.

  Sarah made it easy by volunteering.

  Of course, sending her off alone on a potentially dangerous mission involving an ex-boyfriend isn’t exactly my favorite idea. But I can’t shake the feeling that the grim future I saw in Ella’s dream is racing towards us. We need all the help we can get. If there’s even the tiniest possibility that sending Sarah to Alabama could help us win this war, it’s a chance we have to take, my own selfish feelings be damned.

  And anyway, she won’t be totally alone on the trip.

  In the backseat, Bernie Kosar stands with his paws braced against the closed window, tail wagging furiously as he watches all the people zipping in and out of the bus station. My old friend seemed pretty wiped out after the battle in Chicago, but some of his energy came back when we got on the road. Once, in Paradise, he’d been my protector. Now he will do the same for Sarah.

  ‘I don’t want you to think of me as your girlfriend right now,’ Sarah says out of the blue, totally composed.

  I lean back a bit, squinting at her. ‘That’s going to be hard for me.’

  ‘I want you to think of me as a soldier,’ she persists. ‘A soldier in this war who’s doing what needs to be done. I don’t know exactly what I’ll find down south, but I have this weird feeling that I’ll be able to help you better from there. At the very least, when it comes to battles, I won’t be around to slow you down.’

  ‘You don’t slow me down,’ I insist, but Sarah waves this objection away.

  ‘It’s okay, John. I want to be with you. I want to see that you’re okay, I want to see you win. But not every soldier can be on the front lines, you know? Some do more good when they’re away from the action.’

  ‘Sarah …’

  ‘I’ve got my phone,’ she continues, motioning to the hastily packed backpack at her feet. Inside it she has a disposable cell phone that Malcolm bought, along with a few changes of clothes and a handgun. ‘I’ll check in every eight hours. But if I don’t, you have to keep going, keep fighting.’

  I get what she’s trying to do. Sarah doesn’t want me rushing off to Alabama if she misses one of her check-in phone calls. She wants my head in the game. Maybe she can sense it, too – that we’re nearing the end of this fight, or at least crossing a point of no return.

  Sarah looks into my eyes. ‘This is bigger than us, John.’

  ‘Bigger than us,’ I repeat, knowing it’s the truth yet wanting to fight against it. I don’t want to lose her, and I don’t want to say good-bye. But I have to.

  I look down at our interlinked hands and remember how simple things were, at least for a little while, back when I first moved to Paradise.

  ‘
You know, the first time my telekinesis started working was during that Thanksgiving at your house.’

  ‘You never told me that,’ Sarah replies, an eyebrow raised, not sure why I’m suddenly getting sentimental. ‘Did my mom’s cooking inspire you?’

  I chuckle. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. That was the same night Henri had his run-in with the original They Walk Among Us crew, along with the Mogadorians who were using them. Afterward, he wanted to leave Paradise, and I refused. Actually, I didn’t just refuse, I used my telekinesis to pin him to the ceiling.’

  ‘Sounds like you,’ Sarah says, shaking her head and smiling. ‘Stubborn.’

  ‘I told him I couldn’t go back to living on the run. Not after Paradise. And you.’

  ‘Oh, John …’ Sarah puts her forehead against my chest.

  ‘I used to think this war wasn’t worth fighting if I couldn’t be by your side,’ I tell her, gently lifting her chin. ‘But now, after everything that’s happened, after everything I’ve seen – I realize that I’m fighting for the future. Our future.’

  The dashboard clock looms impossibly large in the corner of my eye. Only five minutes left. I focus on Sarah, wishing I had a Legacy where I could freeze time, or store this moment up. Tears slip down Sarah’s cheeks and I wipe them away with my thumbs. She puts her hand over mine, squeezing hard, and I can tell she’s trying to steel herself. She takes a deep, shuddering breath and fights back more tears.

  ‘I have to go, John.’

  ‘I trust you,’ I whisper urgently. ‘I don’t just mean to find Mark. If things get bad, I trust you to stay alive. I trust you to come back to me in one piece.’

  Sarah grabs the front of my shirt, pulls me in. I feel a few of her tears against my cheek. I try to let everything go – my missing friends, the war, her leaving me – and just live for a while in her kiss. I wish I could go back to Paradise with her, not as it is now, but the way it was months ago – sneakily making out in my temporary bedroom while Henri was grocery shopping, stealing looks during class, the easy, normal life. But that’s over. We’re not kids anymore. We’re fighters – soldiers – and we have to act the part.