After a moment, Nine nods reluctantly. ‘All right, all right, let me go.’
I let him loose from my telekinetic hold. He looks away immediately, peering down the darkened road, his broad shoulders slumped.
‘I feel like we’re screwed, Six,’ Nine says, his voice hoarse. ‘Like we already lost and no one’s got around to telling us.’
I walk up next to him and put my hand on his shoulder. Our backs to the neon lights of Trapper’s, I can’t really see Nine’s face, but I’m pretty sure his eyes are wet with tears.
‘Bullshit,’ I reply. ‘We don’t lose.’
‘Tell that to Eight.’
‘Nine, come on –’
Nine shoves both his hands through his tangled black hair, almost like he’s going to pull some out. Then, he brings his hands down over his face, rubbing it. When he drops them back to his sides, I can tell he’s trying to be stoic.
‘It was my fault, too,’ he continues. ‘I got him killed.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘It is. Five kicked my ass and I couldn’t help myself. Had to keep talking, had to show him. It should’ve been me. You know it; I know it; Marina damn sure knows it.’
I take my hand off Nine’s shoulder and punch him in the jaw.
‘Ow! Damn it!’ he yelps, staggering away from me and nearly losing his footing in the gravel. ‘What the hell?’
‘Is that what you want?’ I ask, stepping towards him, fists clenched and ready. ‘Want me to kick your ass a little bit? Punish you for what happened to Eight?’
Nine holds up his hands. ‘Cut it out, Six.’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I tell him evenly, unclenching my fists and then jabbing him hard in the chest with my fingers. ‘Five killed Eight, not you. And the Mogadorians are to blame. Got it?’
‘Yeah, I got it,’ Nine replies, although I can’t be sure if I’ve actually gotten through to him or if he just wants me to stop assaulting him.
‘Good. Enough with this mopey crap. We need to figure out what we’re doing next.’
‘I’ve already figured that out,’ Marina chimes in.
I was so intent on beating some sense into Nine that I didn’t hear her approaching. Neither did Nine, and I can tell by the embarrassed look on his face that he’s wondering how much Marina overheard. At the moment, Marina doesn’t seem concerned with Nine’s meltdown. She’s too busy dragging along the scrawny guy from the bar, Dale, the one who wanted to trade me his awesome story for a beer. Marina leads him across the parking lot towards us, holding his ear like a cruel teacher escorting a delinquent to the principal’s office. I notice the slightest coating of frost forming on the side of Dale’s face.
‘Marina, let him go,’ I say.
She complies, yanking Dale ahead of her so that he stumbles into the gravel, ending up on his knees right in front of me. I give her a look – I understand where the violent streak comes from, but I don’t like it. Marina ignores me.
‘Tell them what you told me,’ Marina orders Dale. ‘Your amazing story.’
Dale looks at the three of us, eager to please yet obviously terrified, probably thinking we’re going to kill him if he doesn’t listen.
‘There’s an old NASA base out in the swamp. Got decommissioned in the eighties when the swamp started rising,’ Dale begins haltingly, rubbing the side of his face to warm it up. ‘I go out there sometimes, looking for stuff I can sell. Normally, it’s deserted. But last night, man, I swear I saw UFOs floating around out there. Creepy guys who didn’t look right with guns like I ain’t never seen guarding the place. You ain’t with them, are you?’
‘No,’ I answer. ‘We most definitely are not.’
‘Dale’s volunteered to show us the way,’ Marina says, nudging Dale with the toe of her sneaker. He swallows hard and then nods enthusiastically.
‘It’s not far,’ he says. ‘Couple hours through the swamp.’
‘We just spent two days hiking out of that swamp,’ Nine says. ‘Now you want to go back in?’
‘They have him,’ Marina hisses, pointing into the dark. ‘You heard Malcolm’s story about what they did to Number One. They stole her Legacies.’
I give Marina a sharp look. Even if most of it doesn’t make any sense to him, Dale’s still listening intently to our conversation. ‘Should we really be talking about this?’
Marina snorts. ‘You’re worried about Dale, Six? They’re killing us and blowing up our friends. Keeping secrets from this drunk is the least of our worries.’
Dale raises his hand. ‘I swear I won’t say nothing about … about whatever you’re talking about.’
‘What about Chicago?’ Nine asks. ‘What about the others?’
Marina affords Nine only a quick glare. She keeps her eyes on me when she answers. ‘You know I’m worried about them. But we don’t know where John and the others are, Six. We know where Eight is. And I am not, under any circumstances, letting those sick bastards keep him.’
The way she says it, I know there’s no way to convince Marina otherwise. If we don’t go with her, she’ll go by herself. Not that I even consider not going. I’m spoiling for a fight almost as bad as she is. And if there’s a chance Eight’s body is still out there – in the clutches of Mogadorians still lingering in Florida, maybe with Five – then we have to at least try recovering it. Leave no Garde behind.
‘Dale,’ I say, ‘I hope you’ve got a boat we can borrow.’
5
The slab of meat in front of me looks like a soggy piece of uncooked fish, except it’s lacking any texture whatsoever. I poke it with my fork and the pale slab jiggles like gelatin. Or maybe it’s still alive and trying to escape, those unappetizing tremors its attempt to slowly wiggle off my plate. If I look away, I wonder if the thing will pick up the pace and try crawling into one of the air vents.
I want to vomit.
‘Eat,’ Setrákus Ra commands.
He called himself my grandfather. That thought makes me more nauseous than the food. I don’t want to believe him. This could be just like the visions, some sick game meant to get under my skin.
But why go through all the trouble? Why bring me here? Why not just kill me?
Setrákus Ra sits across from me, all the way down at the opposite end of a ridiculously large banquet table that looks as if it was carved from lava. His chair is thronelike, made of the same dark stone as the table, but definitely not large enough to accommodate the mammoth warlord we fought at Dulce Base. No, at some point when I wasn’t watching, Setrákus Ra shrunk down to a more reasonable eight feet tall so that he could comfortably hunch over his own plate of Mogadorian cuisine.
Could his size changing be a Legacy? It works really similarly to my ability to alter my age.
‘You have questions,’ Setrákus Ra rumbles, observing me.
‘What are you?’ I blurt out.
He cocks his head. ‘What do you mean, child?’
‘You’re a Mogadorian,’ I say, trying not to sound too frantic. ‘I’m Loric. We can’t be related.’
‘Ah, such a simplistic idea. Human, Loric, Mogadorian – these are just words, dear one. Labels. Centuries ago, my experiments proved that our genetics could be changed. They could be augmented. We needn’t wait for Lorien to gift us with Legacies. We could take them as we needed them, utilizing them like any other resource.’
‘Why do you keep saying we?’ I ask, my voice cracking. ‘You’re not one of us.’
Setrákus Ra smiles thinly. ‘I was Loric once. The tenth Elder. Until the time came when I was cast out. Then, I became what you see before you: the powers of a Garde combined with the strength of a Mogadorian. An evolutionary improvement.’
My legs start shaking under the table. I hardly listen after he mentions the tenth Elder. I remember that from Crayton’s letter. He said my father was obsessed with the fact that our family once had an Elder. Could that have been Setrákus Ra?
‘You’re crazy,’ I say. ‘And you’re a liar.’
/>
‘I am neither of those things,’ he replies, patiently. ‘I am a realist. A futurist. I altered my genetics to become more like them, so they would accept me. In return for their fealty, I helped their population grow. I brought them back from the brink of extinction. Joining the Mogadorians gave me a chance to continue the experiments that so frightened the Loric. Now, my work is almost finished. Soon, all life in the universe – Mogadorian, human, even what’s left of the Loric – will be improved under my gently guiding hand.’
‘You didn’t improve life on Lorien,’ I snap back. ‘You killed them all.’
‘They opposed progress,’ Setrákus Ra states, like the death of a whole planet is nothing.
‘You’re sick.’
I’m not afraid to talk back to him. I know that he won’t hurt me – not yet, at least. He’s too vain for that, wants too badly to convert another Loric to the cause. He wants things to be just like in my nightmare. Since I woke up here, he’s had a team of female Mogadorians attending to me. They dressed me in this long, black formal gown, very similar to the one I was wearing in my vision. It itches like crazy, and I have to keep tugging at the neckline.
I stare openly at his hideous face, hating myself for trying to find some resemblance. His head is bulbous and pale, covered in intricate Mogadorian tattoos; his eyes are empty and black, just like the Mogs; his teeth are filed down and sharp. If I look hard enough, I can almost see the Loric cast to his features, like crumbling architecture buried beneath the paleness and gross Mog artwork.
Setrákus Ra looks up from his food, meeting my gaze. Facing him head-on still gives me a chill and I have to force myself not to turn away.
‘Eat,’ he says again. ‘You need your strength.’
I hesitate for a moment, not sure how far I should push my insubordination, but also really not wanting to sample the Mog version of sushi. I make a point of dropping my fork so that it clatters loudly against the side of my plate. It echoes in the high-ceilinged room – Setrákus Ra’s private dining area – which is only slightly more furnished than the other cold rooms aboard the Anubis. The walls are covered in paintings of Mogadorians bravely charging into combat. The ceiling is open, providing a breathtaking view of Earth, the planet imperceptibly rotating below us.
‘Do not push me, girl,’ Setrákus Ra growls. ‘Do as you’re told.’
I push my plate away from me. ‘I’m not hungry.’
He studies me, a condescending look in his eyes, like a parent trying to show a bratty child how patient they can be.
‘I can put you back to sleep and feed you through a tube, if you’d prefer. Perhaps you’d be better mannered when I next woke you, once the war was won,’ he says. ‘But then we wouldn’t be able to talk. You wouldn’t be able to enjoy your grandfather’s victory firsthand. And you wouldn’t be able to entertain your futile notions of escape.’
I swallow hard. I know we’ll be going down to Earth eventually. Setrákus Ra isn’t going to have his warships orbit Earth for a while and then float peacefully away. There’s going to be an invasion. I’ve been telling myself that once we land I’d have a chance to run for it. Obviously, Setrákus Ra knows that I’d rather die than be his prisoner or his co-ruler or whatever he’s got in mind. But, from the smug look on his face, he doesn’t seem to care. Maybe he thinks he can brainwash me before we return to Earth.
‘How am I supposed to eat with your nasty face right there?’ I ask him, hoping to see his self-satisfied look falter. ‘It’s not exactly appetizing.’
Setrákus Ra stares at me like he’s trying to decide whether to leap across the table and throttle me. After a moment, he reaches to the side of his chair where his cane is propped. Ornately carved from a shimmering golden metal with an ominous black eye on the handle, it’s the same cane I saw Setrákus Ra use during the fight at Dulce Base. I brace myself for an attack.
‘The Eye of Thaloc,’ Setrákus Ra says, noticing me eyeing the staff. ‘Like Earth, it will one day be part of your Inheritance.’
Before I can ask a follow-up question, the obsidian eye in the cane’s handle flashes. I flinch, but it quickly becomes clear that I’m not in any danger. Instead, it’s Setrákus Ra who begins to convulse. Bands of red and purple light project from the Eye of Thaloc and scan over his body. Although I don’t exactly know how, I can sense energy moving from the cane into Setrákus Ra. He writhes and contorts as his skin peels away from his body, expanding outward and shifting, like a bubble forming in candlewax.
When it’s over, Setrákus Ra looks human. Actually, he looks like a movie star. He’s assumed the form of a handsome older guy in his mid-forties, with immaculately arranged salt-and-pepper hair, soulful blue eyes and just a modest amount of stubble. He’s tall, but no longer intimidatingly so, and he’s wearing a stylish blue suit and pressed dress shirt, casually open at the collar. Of his previous appearance, only the three Loric pendants remain, their cobalt jewels matching his shirt.
‘Better?’ he asks, his usual scratchy voice replaced by this man’s smooth baritone.
‘What …?’ I look at him, dumbfounded. ‘Who are you supposed to be?’
‘I chose this form for the humans,’ he explains. ‘Our research shows they’re naturally drawn to middle-aged Caucasian men of these specifications. Apparently, they find them leaderly and trustworthy.’
‘Why …’ I try to gather my thoughts. ‘What do you mean, it’s for the humans?’
Setrákus Ra gestures towards my plate. ‘Eat and I will answer your questions. That’s not unreasonable, is it? I believe the humans call it quid pro quo.’
I look down at my plate and the pale blob waiting for me there. I think about Six and Nine and the rest of the Garde and wonder what they would do in my situation. It seems like Setrákus Ra wants to spill his guts, so I should probably let him. Maybe while he’s trying to subtly win me over, he’ll let slip the secret to beating the Mogadorians. If that even exists. Either way, taking a bite of the boiled slug on my plate seems like a small price to pay if it means gathering some important information. I shouldn’t think of my situation as being held prisoner; it’s more like I’m on a mission behind enemy lines.
I’m a freaking spy.
I pick up my knife and fork, cut a small square off the edge of the meat and plop it into my mouth. There’s hardly any taste at all, it’s almost like chewing a wadded-up ball of notebook paper. It’s the texture that really bothers me – the way the meat starts to fizz and melt as soon as it touches my tongue, breaking down so quickly that I don’t even really chew. I can’t help but think of the way Mogadorians disintegrate when they’re killed and have to stop myself from gagging.
‘It isn’t what you’re used to, but it’s the best the Anubis is equipped to produce,’ Setrákus Ra says, almost apologetically. ‘The food will improve once we’ve taken Earth.’
I ignore him, not really caring about the finer points of Mogadorian cuisine. ‘I ate, now answer my question.’
He inclines his head, looking charmed by my directness. ‘I chose this form because the humans will find it comforting. It’s what I will wear to accept surrender of their planet.’
I gape at him. ‘They’re not going to surrender to you.’
He smiles. ‘Of course they will. Unlike the Loric, who pointlessly fight against impossible odds, the humans have a rich history of subjugation. They appreciate demonstrations of superior force and will gladly accept the tenets of Mogadorian Progress. And those who don’t will perish.’
‘Mogadorian “Progress.” ’ I spit the words. ‘What are you even talking about? You’re going to make everyone like you? A mon –’
I don’t finish my question. I was going to call him a monster, but then I thought back to my vision. I callously ordered Six’s execution right in front of John, Sam and a crowd of people. What if something like Setrákus Ra is already lurking inside me?
‘I believe there was at least one question in all that vitriol,’ Setrákus Ra says. He maint
ains his infuriating smile, made even worse now that he’s wearing a handsome human face, and gestures towards my plate. I shovel down another bite of the horrible food. He clears his throat like he’s about to give a speech.
‘We share the same blood, granddaughter, which is why you will be spared the fate of those Garde who foolishly oppose me. Because, unlike them, you are capable of change,’ Setrákus Ra explains. ‘I may have been Loric once, but over the centuries I have made myself into something better. Once I control the Earth, I will have the power necessary to change the lives of billions. All they need do is accept Mogadorian Progress. Then my work will at last bear fruit.’
I squint at him. ‘Power? From where?’
Setrákus Ra smiles at me, touching the pendants that hang around his neck. ‘You will see when the time is right, child. Then, you will understand.’
‘I already understand,’ I reply. ‘I understand that you’re a disgusting, genocidal freak who gave himself a bad Mogadorian makeover.’
Setrákus Ra’s smile flickers and for a moment I wonder if I’ve pushed my luck too far. He sighs and drags his fingers across his throat, the skin of his assumed form parting to reveal the thick purple scar around his throat.
‘Pittacus Lore gave me this when he tried to kill me,’ he says, his voice cold and level. ‘I was one of them, but he and the other Elders cast me out. Banished me from Lorien because of my ideas.’
‘What? Did they not want to elect you supreme ruler or something?’
Setrákus Ra passes his hand across his throat once again and the scar tissue disappears.
‘They already had a ruler,’ Setrákus Ra replies, his voice dropping lower, as if the memory makes him angry. ‘They just refused to admit it.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
This time, he doesn’t make me take a bite of food. He’s on a roll now. ‘My dear, the Elders were ruled by the planet itself. Lorien made their choices for them. Who would be Garde and who would be Cêpan. They believed we should live as caretakers and let nature determine our fates. I disagreed. The Legacies granted by Lorien are simply a resource, like anything else. Would you let the fish in the ocean dictate who is fit to eat them, or allow the iron in the ground to decide when to be forged? Of course not.’