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  To all the people out there who believe.

  Thank you. Just believing is an act of power.

  Try to hold it close.

  Remember upon the conduct of each depends the fate of all.

  —Alexander the Great

  PROLOGUE

  Madison Greene hopped up onto a toilet paper holder, shutting the bathroom stall behind her.

  This should not be so hard, Madison, she whispered to herself. This should be easy. Just wait. Just wait for the girl.

  Madison Greene wasn’t really her name, but it was the name she had been using. She was a seventh-year infiltrator in the United States, and everything she was sent to do to save the world seemed both difficult and worth it.

  At least, it all seemed worth it—except for the probability that she wouldn’t survive to see the Earth saved, and she would instead die in a disgusting high school bathroom in southern New Hampshire.

  There was no glory in that, was there?

  She hauled in a long, slow breath; the Earth air was stale, horrible, and full of chemicals, and it polluted her three lungs. Still, the air did what was required of it to do: kept her breathing and alive.

  Another alien was nearby. She could feel him, the violence and death. It was made purely for this: to kill the girl, to kill anything that got in the way of killing the girl. The reasons didn’t matter to it. It wasn’t about reason. It was just about the death, the purpose.

  She couldn’t let that happen. She was banking on the girl coming in here after her class. She’d even sent a telepathic suggestion. They would meet. She would give her what she needed to give her. She would warn her. That was Madison’s mission.

  The transmitter lodged in her hip made sure that whatever happened, the others would know. She shuddered thinking of what could transpire if she failed. All the humans, the silly, amusing humans, would be eradicated, gone before they had a chance to understand what had happened—an entire race destroyed. And yes, humans could be unbelievably stupid—they fought and raped and hated—but they were influenced to do that. Their nature was good. She believed that. She had always believed that. And that’s why she wanted to help. Even if it meant dying. She wanted them to survive.

  And their best bet was this girl—this untrained, ridiculously confused girl.

  The bathroom aromas smelled deadly. The toxic blend of cleaner and old gaseous eruptions was both vile and volatile. The ceiling above her was nonporous and contained the smells of decay. A pipe belched out a noise. She listened. Classes were ending. Footsteps echoed in the halls. The other alien was in the building already. She could hear him breathe. The Formica floor stained with black shoe scuffs and years of use couldn’t contain him or her or fate.

  The door opened. Madison touched the crystal in her pocket. It was all about this. This rock, which wasn’t just a rock, would help the girl find the others. It would help her find her own power. And if Madison survived, she would show her how. And if Madison didn’t survive? Hopefully, the girl could figure it out herself.

  In the overly bright fluorescent lighting, she could make out the shadow of the girl as she stood by the sinks. The alien was getting closer. She couldn’t wait any longer, could she? No. No, if she was going to die here, she was going to make sure the alien died with her, and make sure this girl—this fragile, human girl—survived.

  CHAPTER 1

  The town has been emptied. When you walk down the street, you meet nobody, nothing, except for the bees buzzing hopelessly in the air, the beetles scuttling across the cracked sidewalks. Nothing seems to matter to the bugs or the wind; they just keep on keeping on. The sky above me is dark, tornado brown and hopeless. The debris the humans left is picked up and spun on.

  It’s my dream nightmare.

  I’ve had it every night since my mother has been in the hospital. It haunts me in the daytime, too. This dream of a future Earth with no humans, this dream of a future Earth inhabited only by aliens and beetles and bees … I can’t let it be real.

  I am terrified it will be real.

  I am terrified that I won’t have a chance to stop it.

  * * *

  Human beings like to think that we are the most important species to ever exist, the top of the food chain, the most dangerous predator. There is safety in that. Even as we mourn how awful we are as a species, we can breathe a sigh of relief that though we are awful, we are still safe in that awfulness. Humans don’t feel threatened by dolphins. We don’t worry that rabbits will attack our phalanx, split our defensive line, capture us, and then roast us on a spit. Our homes aren’t threatened by roving bands of manatees bent on our annihilation.

  We trust that we are safe. We trust that our biggest threat is each other.

  That trust is a lie.

  There are much bigger things squelching, stomping, and fluttering about. There are much bigger threats than us humans. Without our weapons, we are a pretty weak species. Our skin breaks and tears. Our minds twist and explode. Our lungs can only bring in so much air. Our muscles can get us to run just barely fast enough—even Olympians can’t run fast enough—to escape the threat that approaches us.

  And then there is me. There are four facts in the story of Mana Trent.

  I am a weapon.

  My mother loves me.

  My mother is not my biological mother.

  My whole life is a lie, a story.

  I am a weapon that aliens originally planned to use to infiltrate the humans from within, but I was rescued by my mother, a government-endorsed alien hunter turned rogue, and she created a fabricated life for me before she was kidnapped and shot and spiraled into a coma, which is where she is now—in a coma in a hospital. It is where she has been for weeks and weeks. Now, I’m waiting to be used, to be helpful, for word from the agency she worked for that they need me. So far? Nothing.

  The world of desolation, of bees and wind and beetles? It could happen.

  This is what I’m thinking about on a freaking freezing day in December. And these thoughts swirl around in my head so fiercely that I forget to answer half the questions on my world history test and instead just doodle all over the margins: WHO AM I? WHAT AM I? WHO DO I TRUST?

  My best friend, Seppie, has passed in her test early and sits back at her desk texting or checking out the cheerleaderswhorock Tumblr tag or something. Her parents are doctors, normal and brilliant and human. They deal with systemic racism and microagression with grace and humor, the same way Seppie does. They are the sort of people you want to belong to—smart and funny and perfect in their imperfections.

  The bell rings. A dog races outside the classroom window, infinitely more fascinating than the test I should be focusing on. Clouds loom above t
he dog, thick and gray, heavy with snow that is ready to fall. A front must be coming through, a change in the weather pattern. I shudder.

  “Turn your tests in!” our student teacher calls. Her name is Mrs. Horton. We call her Mrs. Horton Hears a Who a lot.

  My paper is terribly lacking in answers, kind of like my life. Standing up, I sigh. Seppie nudges me with her bag. “You okay?”

  “I feel lost,” I tell her.

  She pats my arm. Already, Ms. Efficient has packed up her laptop, phone, books, and world history textbook, which weighs eight thousand pounds, while I’m still struggling to get my actual test paper to the teacher’s desk.

  “I’m sure your mom will wake up soon,” she says.

  “It’s not just that.” My head aches.

  “Ms. Trent! Kindly stop asking your friend for the answers and turn in your test.” Our teacher, Mr. Boland, is not normally quite so much of a pain. He is today.

  “I—I—” I can’t even get a word out.

  And I don’t honestly have to speak because while I’m just standing there stuttering and mortified that he thought I might have been cheating, Seppie has whipped my test paper out of my shaking hand and strides to the teacher’s desk. She slams it down. Her biceps are definitely looking stronger lately. She has started taking Krav Maga, this Israeli self-defense system designed for the country’s special forces.

  “I hope you seriously were not implying that Mana was cheating, Mr. Boland, or that I would help her cheat, because that sort of besmirchment of my character does not suit me nor you.” Her hands fly to her hips. “Do I make myself clear?”

  He coughs and flattens my paper on the stack of other tests. “Perfectly.”

  She gives him a glare-down. He looks like a bully that’s been beaten up in an alley and I swear if he could turn tail, run, and hide right now, he would. Instead he just pivots to the left, pivots back, his hands go up almost into a V stance, and he adds, “No insult meant.”

  Everyone remaining in class is silent, standing there, stopped, as we wait for Seppie’s reaction.

  Finally, she says, “None taken, but you need to apologize to Mana here. She’s not the best test taker but she’s no cheater. Are you, Mana?”

  “No, never,” I mumble. I don’t mumble because it’s a lie. It isn’t. It’s the truth. I mumble because I’m so horrified.

  He laughs nervously. “All set then. Everyone have a lovely day. Try not to be late for class.”

  As we walk out of the room, Seppie drips disdain. “‘Try not to be late for class?’ Witness Mr. Needs to Assert His Authority.” But as soon as we’re out in the hallway and nobody is listening she says, “Sometimes I think you like failing tests.”

  “Favorite thing in the world,” I quip, taking out my phone and checking if there is any communication from China in response to my million texts to him about helping him save the world, or at least humanity. There is nothing.

  China is my mother’s former partner. He has promised me that I can help him try to locate all these parts in some sort of machine that aliens are making to destroy people. He is arrogant and wears sunglasses a lot and is secretly kind beneath his tough-guy exterior. He is also ignoring my texts.

  Seppie yanks the phone out of my hand and scrolls through my unreplied-to texts. She sighs. “How many texts have you sent him?”

  “Three a day,” I admit. “For a month and a half at least. How long has it been?”

  “Fifty-six days.” Handing back the phone, she cocks her head toward me, chin down. This is Seppie’s sad posture. It’s the same way she looked when we lost the cheerleading state championship in eighth grade because Doreen Dwyer forgot to do a back handspring and then later fell out of a simple prep and elevator. We lost by a point. Seppie never forgave her. And then there was the time Seppie did not get a perfect 2400 on her SATs and got a 2390 instead. I couldn’t talk to her for a week. Nobody could. Lyle and I eventually sat her down for an intervention that involved binge-watching Scream Queens and lots of chocolate ice cream.

  I feel like I would get a full-on Seppie lecture about seeming desperate in texts and how you should never act too needy, except that she has class now and we’ve come to the intersection in the hallway where we always part.

  She gives me a tiny hug. “Listen. Some things are just not meant to be. Maybe it just isn’t your destiny to save the world. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

  Her words sting. I stiffen even though I’m being hugged. “I don’t have any other destiny. I’m supposed to be helping them.”

  “Sweetie, if they wanted your help, I think they would have texted you back by now.” Her words stay in the air for a second and thud to the floor, hard and heavy things. She lets go of me, hug over.

  “I know you think I can’t help—”

  “This is an alien versus humanity thing, Mana. This is war.” Seppie’s voice is low but insistent.

  “I know it’s a war.”

  “Why do you have to be a part of it? There’s no reason you have to go through all that again. Your mom is in the hospital.”

  “I know that.”

  “Your dad is missing.”

  “I know that!” I talk over her. “That’s why I have to do something. Don’t you get it?”

  “No. I don’t. You can stay here, right here, and be safe.”

  “There is no safe. Come on, Seppie. You know that now. There are people like my mom and China laying down their lives for us—these … these silent heroes—and I have to be a part of that. I can’t not be a part of that. I can’t do any less than that. You’ve seen what I can do.”

  I want to keep arguing, but her words hurt and I say nothing else as her face shifts from sympathetic Seppie to an expression that I’ve never seen before.

  “I—um—I got into a special camp,” she says out of nowhere. “It’s sort of a premed, precollege thing for people who want to be doctors.”

  She’s leaving me? Now?

  The floor is suddenly super-attractive and I want to stare at it, but instead I manage to rally and throw myself into Seppie in a congratulatory hug. “Really? I am so happy for you! When? Where?”

  “Soon. I—um—I’m probably going to miss some school.” She hugs me back and whispers into my hair, “You sure it’s okay? I feel weird leaving you.”

  This seems sudden and for a second I don’t trust her, which is ridiculous. I mean, I trust my friends, but I keep expecting her to shake her head and make the sign of the cross and tell me she’s not up for all the weirdness and danger that are my life now. She hasn’t, though. I have to give her that.

  I give her an extratight squeeze and try to talk through the lump of sadness that has lodged itself in my throat. “Of course! I’m a big girl. I can handle myself without my best friend for a week or so. Right?”

  She breaks the hug, but keeps her long arm wrapped over my shoulder. “Of course you can. You can do anything, Mana. You just have to put your mind to it.”

  “Thanks, life coach,” I quip.

  “Best friends are often life coaches.”

  “Sure, if their advice is ‘go kiss that cute guy over there,’ or ‘yes, climb out the window so we can sneak into some twenty-one-and-over club.’” Laughing makes it better, but the reality sets in again. “How long will you be gone?”

  “A week or two. The details are still being worked out.” She cringes. “I won’t be here to cheer for a bit, but I’ll be back in time for Districts.”

  I try to process it all, but it just makes me sadder. “Wait. When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “It’s been very last minute, rush-rush,” she says, but her voice doesn’t ring 100 percent true. “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

  She folds me into another quick hug and lets go. She doesn’t scrutinize my face because she knows me well enough to predict that I won’t be able to hide my sadness. Neither of us wants that.

  “Try to have all your life c
rises internally when I’m gone, okay? All your big questions? Just stand by on figuring them out, and try not to have any big external emergencies! You know what I mean, right?” she shouts over her shoulder as she disappears into the classroom.

  And the crap thing about it is not just that I have failed my world history test, but that the answers to those questions that were spiraling around in my head throughout the exam suck. Who am I? I will never know. What am I? Some sort of experimented-on freak. Who do I trust?

  It has been weeks and we haven’t looked for anything at all.

  So, yeah, these were the things that I was thinking about instead of answering why governments in the Middle East back in ancient times weren’t centralized or why pre-Columbian civilizations were similar to classical Greece. Clue: It’s all about the city-states, which I knew, but I was too distracted to answer.

  I barely held it together when I stared at those blank spaces. And then Mr. Boland was such an ass, accusing me of cheating.

  “Mana?” Mrs. Horton is notoriously wine-loving, which you can tell from the red veins in her eyes, but she is also notoriously kind, and I know she can tell that I’m upset, thanks to the blank piece of paper Seppie turned in for me and my currently shaking hands. She comes around from the other side of the hall. “Are you doing okay?”

  I nod stiffly. I don’t trust my voice. I’m not good when people are kind to me or when they ask about my mother.

  “How is your mother doing?” she asks, right on cue.

  I freeze. There are kids behind me. I will not lose it. I drop my bag. Stuff falls out all over the floor.

  “She’s the same,” I lie. She is the same physically—still in a coma—but she is not the mother, the quiet, demure, non-alien-hunting mother, that I thought she was for all the years of my growing up. “I’m sorry about the test.”

  I squat to pick up my things and Mrs. Horton helps.

  Her face squishes up a bit as she studies my face and then her attention focuses on the other students streaming past me down the hallway. She hands me my world history book. “We can talk about this later.”