‘You might need to hold on to me,’ I tell Walker. ‘You’ve seen how Nine does with gadgets.’
‘Hey,’ Nine says, wounded. ‘This one I actually know how to work.’
Seconds later, the elevator doors open and a barrage of blaster fire hammers the elevator’s back
wall, the Mogs up here adopting a strategy of shoot first and ask questions later. Without poking his
head out of cover, Nine tosses the strand of stones outside the elevator.
I imagine Nine’s weapon working like it did back at the cabin – the beads hovering in a perfect
circle, spinning slowly forward, sucking up anything in their path. I can hear the whoosh of air,
followed by Mogadorian screams, and a lot of futile shooting. Glass breaks as framed pictures are
torn from the hallway walls, the pieces sucked into the miniature vacuum.
Nine snaps his fingers and everything the vacuum collected explodes outward. Violently expelled
from the suction, one Mogadorian comes flying into the elevator. His head smashes hard against the
back wall, his neck broken. Outside, everything is quiet.
When it’s over, I stick my head outside the doors. The air is filled with swirling dust particles that might be Mogadorian remains. A blaster that somehow became wedged against the ceiling clatters to
the floor. Aside from that, the only thing in the hallway is a room-service cart that looks like it’s gone through a grinder, its legs bent and twisted. There’s only one door at the end of the short hallway, the one for the penthouse, and it’s now half broken off its hinges.
‘What the hell was that thing?’ Walker asks, incredulous.
‘The Mogs aren’t the only ones with kick-ass weaponry,’ Nine says, picking up the harmless-
looking stone strand from where it landed on the floor.
‘Don’t get any ideas,’ I say to Walker when I catch her craning her neck to get a look at the stones.
‘Our technology isn’t for sale.’
Walker frowns at me. ‘Yeah, well, judging by that bullshit with the gloves, you don’t know how to
work it anyway.’
From the broken doorway up ahead, I hear the droning of a television. It’s turned to cable news, I
think, some talking head rambling on about stock prices. Other than that, the hallway is totally quiet.
There isn’t any sign of more Mogadorians. Even so, we advance cautiously towards the penthouse
door.
Wary of an ambush, I nudge the door with my telekinesis before we get too close. It comes off the
hinges easily and falls into the penthouse with a thud. The living room inside is dark, all the curtains drawn, and lit only by the blue glow of the television.
‘Come on in,’ a gravelly voice calls from inside. ‘There’s no one in here who can hurt you.’
‘That’s Sanderson,’ Walker whispers.
I exchange a quick look with Nine. He shrugs and waves towards the door. I go first, Nine right
behind me and Walker bringing up the rear.
The first thing I notice is a damp, moldy smell in the hotel room. It smells like rot with an
undercurrent of minty, old-man joint cream. A map of New York City is spread across the table in the
suite’s dining area, notes in Mogadorian scribbled at various locations. Next to the table is a
knocked-over chair, as if someone got up in a hurry. There are also Mogadorian cannons propped up
against one wall along with some dark canvas backpacks of gear – I notice a laptop, a few cell
phones and a thick leather-bound book.
None of that interests me as much as the old man seated at the edge of the suite’s slept-in king-size
bed. He watches the TV through the open bedroom doorway, maybe too weak to walk himself into the
penthouse’s living room.
‘Goddamn, dude,’ Nine exclaims, upon seeing Sanderson. ‘What is wrong with you?’
I’ve seen a lot of pictures of Bud Sanderson over the last few days. The first was on They Walk
Among Us, Sanderson as an old man with thinning white hair, jowls and a paunch. On the website, in
a tabloid-style story I didn’t think too much about, Mark James accused Sanderson of using some kind
of Mogadorian anti-aging treatment. The next time I saw Sanderson was in Agent Walker’s file,
having lunch with a disguised Setrákus Ra, hale and hearty, silver hair full and slicked back, looking like he might jog a few miles after his Cobb salad.
The Sanderson in front of me doesn’t look like either of those pictures. Nine and I walk into the
bedroom to get a closer look, Walker lingering behind. The secretary of defense is a frail old man, his hunched body wrapped up in a puffy hotel robe. The right side of his face looks saggy and collapsed
– his eye socket droops, and his jawline disappears beneath folds of loose skin. His white hair is
badly thinned, a comb-over barely managing to hide a smattering of age spots. He smiles at us – or
maybe it’s a grimace – his teeth yellow, gums receding. In the open neck of his robe and along his
forearms, I notice some prominent veins that are discolored black.
‘Number Four and Number Nine,’ Sanderson says, pointing a shaky finger at me and then Nine. He
doesn’t seem offended at all by Nine’s grossed-out reaction, doesn’t even seem to have noticed.
‘Your pictures have been crossing my desk for years. Furtive shots from security cameras and the
like. I practically watched you boys grow up.’
Sanderson sounds like a reminiscent, doddering grandfather. I’m completely taken aback. I’d been
expecting a sellout politician to try hitting me with talking points on Mogadorian Progress. This guy
barely looks capable of getting up from his bed, much less giving a speech in front of the UN.
‘And you …’ Sanderson tilts his head to get a look at Walker. ‘You’re one of mine, aren’t you?’
‘Special Agent Karen Walker,’ she replies, stepping into the doorway. ‘Not one of yours. I serve
humanity now, sir.’
‘Well, that’s nice,’ Sanderson says dismissively. He doesn’t seem at all interested in her. The way
his beady, black eyes settle on Nine and me, like we’re his long-lost relatives gathered around his
deathbed, makes me seriously uncomfortable. Even Nine has slipped into an awkward silence.
I notice a small kit on the bed next to Sanderson. It contains a few sleek syringes filled with a dark liquid that reminds me vaguely of Piken blood.
I take a step towards him, my voice low. ‘What did they do to you?’
‘Nothing I didn’t ask for,’ Sanderson replies, sadly. ‘I wish you boys would have found me sooner.
Now it’s too late.’
‘Like hell,’ Nine says.
‘Even if you kill me, it won’t make any difference,’ Sanderson rasps, resignedly.
‘We’re not here to kill you,’ I reply. ‘I don’t know what they’ve told you, what they’ve filled your
mind and body with, but we’re not done fighting.’
‘Oh, but I am,’ Sanderson replies, and pulls a small handgun out of his robe’s front pocket. Before I
can stop him, he holds the pistol next to his temple and pulls the trigger.
2 1
If I’d had time to think about it, I probably wouldn’t have been able to do it.
There’s about a millimeter of space between Bud Sanderson’s temple and the barrel of his gun. It’s
in that space that I manage to stop the bullet, holding it there with my telekinesis. The precision
required makes me grunt from exertion. Every muscle in my body is tensed, my fists clenched and toes
curled. It’s like I flung my entire body into stopping that bullet.
I can’t believe I just did that. I’ve never done anything so precise before.
A ring-shaped burn from the pistol’s barrel forms on Sanderson’s temple, but otherwise his head is
totally intact.