Not sure what else to do, I try the satellite phone again. Still no answer from John. That makes me think of Phiri Dun-Ra telling us that the war had already come and gone. I don’t have any new scars, which means John and Nine are still very much alive, but that doesn’t mean everything is copacetic back in New York.
“Adam, can we key into the Mog communications from one of these ships?” I ask. “I want to know what’s happening.”
“Of course,” he replies, jumping at the opportunity to do something productive.
The three of us climb on board our old Skimmer, Adam settling into the pilot’s seat. He successfully powers on the ship’s electric systems, although the lights flicker spastically and something in the Skimmer’s core groans at the effort. Adam begins turning a dial on the dashboard, picking up nothing but intermittent bursts of static.
“I just need to find the right frequency,” he says.
I sigh. “It’s fine. Not like we’re going anywhere.”
Next to me, Marina gazes at the Sanctuary through the Skimmer’s window. Because we left the floodlights on, the entire temple is lit up, the ancient limestone practically glowing.
“Don’t lose hope, Six,” Marina says quietly. “We’ll figure this out.”
When Adam turns the dial again, the static is replaced by a guttural Mogadorian voice. The Mog speaks in a clipped, no-nonsense way, like he’s reading items off a list. Of course, I can’t understand a word of what he’s saying.
I elbow Adam. “You going to translate?”
“I . . .” Adam, staring at the radio like it’s possessed, doesn’t know what to say. I quickly realize that he doesn’t want to tell me what news is coming in over the radio.
“How bad?” I ask, keeping my voice level. “Just tell me how bad.”
Adam clears his throat and shakily begins to translate. “Moscow, moderate resistance. Cairo, no resistance. Tokyo, no resistance. London, moderate resistance. New Delhi, moderate resistance. Washington, D.C., no resistance. Beijing, high resistance, preservation protocols lifted—”
“What are these?” I cut him off, losing patience with the droning. “Their attack plans?”
“They’re status reports, Six,” Adam says, his voice low. “Warships are reporting in on how the invasion is progressing. Each of those cities has one of the huge warships backing up an occupation effort, and they aren’t the only ones . . .”
“It’s happening?” Marina asks, sitting forward. “I thought we had more time.”
“The fleet is on Earth,” Adam replies, his face blank.
“What did that thing mean about preservation protocols?” I ask. “You said they were lifted in Beijing.”
“Preservation protocols are Setrákus Ra’s way of keeping Earth intact for long-term occupation. If they’re lifted in Beijing, it means they’re destroying the city,” Adam says. “Using it to send a message to other cities that might cause trouble.”
“My God . . . ,” Marina whispers.
“One warship alone could destroy a city in a few hours,” Adam continues. “If they . . .”
He trails off, some new status on the radio getting his attention. He swallows and turns the dial hard, lowering the volume on reports of Mogadorian success.
I grab him by the shoulder. “What is it? What did you hear?”
“New York . . . ,” he begins grimly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “New York, Garde-assisted resistance . . .”
“That’s us! That’s John!”
Adam shakes his head, finishing the translation. “Garde-assisted resistance overcome. Incursion successful.”
“What does that mean?” Marina asks.
“It means they’ve won,” Adam replies darkly. “They’ve conquered New York City.”
They’ve won. The phrase repeats itself in my mind.
They’re taking over and we’re stranded down here.
Because I don’t have a better target it for it, I punch the console where the dull buzz of Mogadorian progress drones on. Sparks erupt from the dashboard and Adam leaps out of the pilot’s chair, startled. Marina gets onto her feet and tries to wrap her arms around me, but I shrug her off.
“Six!” she yells after me as I jump out of the cockpit. “It isn’t over!”
I stand atop our Skimmer feeling rage burning inside me, but having nowhere to channel it. I look at the Sanctuary, bathed in light. This place was supposed to be our salvation. Our trip down here hasn’t changed anything, though. It almost got us killed and now we’re out of the war. How many people are dying because we’re not there to help John save New York?
I feel an itch on the back of my neck. Someone’s watching me. I turn around, my gaze drifting to the runway and the other ships. Phiri Dun-Ra is awake, tied up right where we left her.
She grins at me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN ELLA SPEAKS, A JOLT PASSES THROUGH me. Suddenly, I can move again. I leap up from my operating table and try to shove the Mogadorian doctors surrounding Ella.
My hands pass right through them, like they’re ghosts. They’re frozen in space now, unmoving, the moment a snapshot before me. I need to remind myself that this is all happening inside my head, or Ella’s head, or somewhere in between. In our dreams.
“Don’t worry about them,” Ella says. She sits up, passing through the ooze machine that’s attached to her chest, and then the Mogs as she hops down from her table. “I can’t even feel what they’re doing to me.”
“Ella . . .” I don’t even know where to begin. Sorry for letting you be kidnapped back in Chicago, sorry for not saving you in New York . . .
She hugs me, her small face pressed into my chest. That much feels real, at least.
“It’s okay, John,” she says. Her voice is almost serene, like someone who has accepted her fate. “It isn’t your fault.”
There’s the Ella I’m hugging and then there’s the Ella frozen in time, still pinned down to the operating table beneath the Mogadorian machines, surrounded by enemies. I can’t help looking past the Ella in my arms and staring at the horrific results of her Mogadorian imprisonment. She looks pale and drained, streaks of gray running through her auburn hair. There are already black veins visible beneath her skin. A chill runs through me and I force myself to look away, squeezing Ella a little tighter.
The hug ends and Ella peers up at me. This version of her looks almost as I remember—wide-eyed and innocent—although there’s a tiredness around her eyes, a kind of weary wisdom, that wasn’t there the last time I saw her. I can’t imagine what she’s been through.
“What are they doing to you?” I ask, my voice quiet.
“Setrákus Ra calls it his Gift,” Ella says, her lips curling in disgust. She looks over her shoulder, watching herself get experimented upon, and hugs herself. “The stuff he’s putting into me, I’m not sure where it comes from. It’s the same weirdo genetic crap he grows the vatborn warriors from. It’s the stuff he used to augment some of the humans—you know about that?”
I nod, thinking of Secretary of Defense Sanderson and the cancerous resistance I felt in his body when I healed him.
“He’s doing it to you. His own—” I still hesitate to say this part out loud. “His own flesh and blood.”
Ella nods sadly. “For the second time.”