A Chimæra in golden retriever form that Sarah insisted we call Biscuit tumbles into our path, her teeth clenched around the ripped sleeve of a suit, locked in a tug-of-war with Dust, the gray husky. Another Chimæra, Gamera, which Malcolm named after some old movie monster, trundles after the others but has trouble keeping up in his snapping turtle form. The two other new Chimærae—a hawk we dubbed Regal and a scrawny raccoon we named Bandit—watch the game from one of the inoperative conveyor belts.
It’s a relief to see them playing. The Chimærae weren’t in the best shape when Adam liberated them from Mogadorian experimentation, and they still weren’t doing so hot when he brought them to Chicago. It was slow going, but I was able to use my healing Legacy to fix them up. There was something inside of them, something Mogadorian, that actually felt like it was pushing back against my powers. It even made my Lumen flare up briefly, something that’s never happened when using my healing. Ultimately, though, whatever the Mogs did was washed away by my Legacy.
I’d never actually used my healing Legacy on a Chimæra before that night. Luckily, it worked, because there was one Chimæra in even worse condition than all our new friends.
“Have you seen BK?” I ask Sam, scanning the room for him. I had found him on the roof of the John Hancock Center, shredded by Mogadorian blaster fire and barely clinging to life. I used my healing on him, praying that it would work. Even though he’s better now, I’ve still been keeping an extra-close eye on him, probably because the fates of so many of my other friends are unknown.
“There,” Sam replies, pointing.
At one end of the room, against a wall covered with competing graffiti tags, are a trio of industrial-size laundry bins overflowing with piles of khaki pants. It’s at the summit of one of these piles that Bernie Kosar rests, the antics of Biscuit and Dust seeming to tire him out. Despite my healing, he’s still weak from the fight in Chicago—and also missing a jagged chunk from one of his ears—but with my animal telepathy I can sense a sort of contentedness coming off him as he watches the other Chimærae. When BK sees us enter, his tail thumps fresh dust clouds from the pile of old clothes.
Sam sets down Stanley, and the cat trundles over to the clothes piles with BK, settling into what I guess is the designated Chimæra napping zone.
“Never thought I’d have my own Chimæra,” Sam says, “much less a half dozen of them.”
“And I never thought I’d be working with one of them,” I reply, my gaze settling on Adam.
At the center of the factory floor, steelwork benches are bolted into the floor. Sam’s dad, Malcolm, and Adam are setting up the computer equipment they just purchased by trading in some of my waning supply of Loric gemstones. Because there’s no electricity running to this old factory, they had to buy some small battery-powered generators for the trio of laptops and mobile hotspot. I watch Adam hooking up one of the laptop batteries—his deathly pale skin, lank black hair and angular features making him slightly more human looking than the usual Mogadorians—and remind myself that he’s on our side. Sam and Malcolm seem to trust him; plus he’s got a Legacy, the power to create shock waves, which he inherited from One. If I hadn’t seen him use the Legacy with my own eyes, I’m not sure I’d even think it was possible. Part of me wants to believe, maybe even needs to believe, that a Mog wouldn’t be able to just steal a Legacy, that he has to be worthy. That it happened for a reason.
“Look at it this way,” Sam says quietly as we walk over to the others. “Humans, Loric, Mogs . . . we’ve got like the first meeting of the Intergalactic United Nations over here. It’s historic.”
I snort and step up to the laptop Adam has just finished connecting. He takes one look at me and must detect something—maybe I’m not doing such a good job concealing my conflicted feelings—because he looks down and steps aside, making room for me and moving on to the next laptop. He keeps his eyes fixed on the screen, typing quickly.
“How’d it go?” I ask.
“We got most of the gear we need,” Malcolm replies as he fiddles with a wireless router. Even with his beard starting to get majorly unkempt, Malcolm looks healthier than he did when I first met him. “Anything happen here?”
“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “It’d take a miracle for the Garde in Florida to track us down. And Ella . . . I keep hoping her voice will pop into my head and tell me where they took her, but she hasn’t made contact.”
“At least we’ll know where the others are once the tablet is hooked up,” Sarah says.
“With the gear we bought, I think we can run a hack on the John Hancock building’s phone network,” Malcolm suggests. “That way, if they try calling in from the road, we can intercept the call.”
“Good idea,” I reply, plugging the white locator tablet into the laptop and waiting for it to boot up.
Malcolm pushes his glasses up his nose and clears his throat. “It was Adam’s idea, actually.”
“Oh,” I reply, keeping my voice neutral.
“That is a good idea,” Sarah chimes in. She scoots in next to Malcolm and starts working on the third laptop, giving me a look like I should try saying something nice to Adam. When I don’t, an awkward silence settles over the group. There have been a lot of those since we left Chicago.
Before it can get too weird, the tablet boots up. Sam peers over my shoulder.
“They’re still in Florida,” Sam says.
There’s a solitary dot for me on the tablet, pulsing on the East Coast, and then miles to the south are the four dots for the surviving Garde. Three of the dots are bunched together, basically overlapping into one glowing blob, while a fourth is a short distance away. Immediately, scenarios for that isolated dot begin cycling through my head. Was one of our friends captured? Did they have to separate after they were attacked? Is that Five apart from the others? Does that prove he’s a traitor, like in my vision?
I’m distracted from these thoughts by the fifth dot on the tablet, literally an ocean away from the others. This one hovers over the Pacific, its glow a little dimmer than the rest.
“That must be Ella,” I say, my brow furrowing. “But how—”
Before I can finish my question, Ella’s dot flickers and disappears. A second later, before I can even process my panic, Ella blinks back to life, now hovering over Australia.
“What the hell?” Sam asks, staring over my shoulder.
“It’s moving so fast,” I say. “Maybe they’re transporting her somewhere.”
The dot disappears again, then reappears at an impossible point over Antarctica, nearly off the edge of the tablet’s screen. For the next few seconds, it flickers in and out, bouncing across the map. I smack the side of the tablet with my palm out of frustration.
“They’re scrambling the signal somehow,” I say. “We’ve got no chance of finding her while it’s like this.”
Sam points to the others clustered around Florida. “If they were going to hurt Ella, wouldn’t they have done it already?”
“Setrákus Ra wants her,” Sarah puts in, looking at me. I had told them all about that nightmare scene in D.C. and Ella ruling alongside Setrákus Ra. It’s still hard for any of us to believe, but at least it gives us one advantage. We know what Setrákus Ra wants.
“I hate to leave her out there,” I say grimly. “But I don’t think he’ll harm her. Not yet, anyway.”
“At least we know where the others are,” Sam insists. “We need to get down there before someone else . . .”
“Sam’s right,” I decide, driven by the sinking feeling that one of those dots could blink out at any moment. “They might need our help.”
“I think that would be a mistake,” Adam says. His voice is tentative, but there’s still enough Mog harshness to make my fists clench from reflex. I’m not used to having one of them around.
I turn to stare at him. “What did you say?”
“A mistake,” he repeats. “It’s predictable, John. It’s a reactionary move. This is why my people
always catch up to you.”
I can feel my jaw working, trying to form a response, but mostly I just want to punch his face in. I’m about to take a step forward when Sam puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Easy,” Sam says quietly.
“You want us to just sit around here and do nothing?” I ask Adam, trying to keep my cool. I know I should hear him out, but this whole situation has me feeling cornered. And now I’m supposed to take advice from a guy whose species has been hunting me for my entire life?
“Of course not,” Adam replies, looking up at me with those coal-colored Mogadorian eyes.
“Then what?” I snap. “Give me one good reason we shouldn’t go to Florida.”
“I’ll give you two,” Adam replies. “First, if the rest of the Garde are in danger or captured as you suspect, then their continued survival hinges on luring you in. They are useful only as bait.”
“You’re saying it could be a trap,” I reply through gritted teeth.
“If they are captured, then yes, of course it is a trap. On the other hand, if they are free, what good will your heroic intervention do? Aren’t they highly trained and perfectly capable of getting themselves out of trouble?”
What can I say to that? No? Six and Nine, pretty much the two most badass people I know, aren’t capable of escaping from Florida and tracking us down? But what if they’re down there waiting for us to come get them? I shake my head, still feeling like I want to throttle Adam.
“So what’re we supposed to do in the meantime?” I ask him. “Just sit around and wait for them?”
“We can’t do that,” Sam jumps in. “We can’t just leave them. They have no way of finding us.”
Adam spins his laptop around so I can see the screen.
“Between kidnapping Ella and killing a Garde in Florida, my people will believe they have you on the run once again. They won’t be expecting a counterstrike.”
On the laptop, Adam has pulled up satellite photographs of an expanse of suburbia. It looks like a totally generic, wealthy community. When I look a little closer, I notice a paranoid number of security cameras mounted on the imposingly tall stone wall that encircles the entire property.
“This is Ashwood Estates, just outside of Washington, D.C.,” Adam continues. “It’s home to the top-ranking Mogadorians assigned to North America. With the Plum Island facility wrecked and the Chimærae recovered, I think we should focus our attack here.”
“What about the mountain base in West Virginia?” I ask.
Adam shakes his head. “That is a military installation only, kept out of sight so my people’s forces can mass there. We’d have a hard time taking it down now. And anyway, the real power, the trueborn Mogadorians, the leaders—they reside in Ashwood.”
Malcolm clears his throat. “I tried to relay everything you told me about trueborns, Adam. But maybe it’d be better if you explained it?”
Adam looks around at us, a bit apprehensive. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“You can skip the whole Mogadorian birds-and-the-bees speech,” Sam says, and I stifle a smile.
“It has to do with the bloodlines, right?” I say, prompting him.
“Yeah. Trueborn are the pure bloodlines. Mogadorians born of Mogadorian parents. Like me,” Adam says, slouching a bit. His trueborn status is no great point of pride. “The others, the vatborn, are the soldiers you’ve fought most often. They are not born but grown, thanks to the science of Setrákus Ra.”
“Is that why they disintegrate?” Sarah asks. “Because they’re not, like, real Mogs?”
“They’re bred for combat, not for burying,” Adam replies.
“Doesn’t sound like much of a life,” I say. “You Mogs worship Setrákus Ra for that?”
“As the histories contained in the Great Book tell it, our people were dying off before the so-called Beloved Leader came along. The vatborn and Setrákus Ra’s genetic research saved our species.” Adam pauses, a sneer forming as he thinks this over. “Of course, Setrákus Ra also wrote the Great Book, so who knows.”
“Fascinating,” Malcolm says.
“Yeah, definitely more about Mogadorian breeding than I ever wanted to know,” I say, turning back to the laptop. “If this place is filled with high-ranking Mogs, won’t it be heavily guarded?”
“There will be guards, yes, but not enough to make a difference,” he replies. “You need to understand, my people feel safe here. They are used to being the hunters, not the hunted.”
“So what?” I continue. “We kill a few trueborn Mogs and that’s it? What difference does that make?”
“Any losses in trueborn leadership will have wide-ranging impacts on Mogadorian operations. The vatborn are not particularly good at directing themselves.” Adam traces his finger across the immaculately kept lawns of Ashwood Estates. “Plus, there are tunnels beneath these houses.”
Malcolm walks around to our side of the table, crossing his arms as he looks at the images. “I thought you destroyed those tunnels, Adam.”
“I damaged them, yes,” Adam replies. “But they stretch far beyond the rooms we were in. Even I am not entirely sure what we might find down there.”
Sam looks from Adam to his father. “Is that where . . . ?”
“It’s where they held me,” Malcolm answers. “Where they took my memories. And where Adam rescued me.”
“It’s possible we could find a way to restore your memories,” Adam says, sounding eager to help Malcolm. “If the equipment wasn’t too badly damaged.”
What Adam’s saying makes sense, but I can’t quite bring myself to admit it. I’ve spent my entire life running and hiding from Mogadorians, fighting them, killing them. They’ve taken everything from me. And now, here I am, making battle plans alongside one. It just doesn’t feel right. Not to mention we’re talking about a full frontal assault on a Mogadorian compound with none of the other Garde backing me up.
As if on cue, Dust wanders over and sits down next to Adam’s feet. He reaches down to absently scratch behind its ears.
If the animals trust him, shouldn’t I be able to?
“Whatever we find in those tunnels,” Adam continues, probably knowing I’m not sold, “I am certain it will provide valuable insight into their plans. If your friends are captured or being tracked, we will know for sure once I’ve accessed the Mogadorian systems.”
“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 Mo
st 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.”
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