Sanderson nods, his eyes fixed on the stage. ‘You want me to go through with it.’
‘Draw him out, just like he wants,’ I say, pulling up the hood on my sweatshirt. ‘And we’ll take
him down.’
‘You’re powerful enough for that?’
As I look over at Sanderson to respond, I can see the same question in Sam’s eyes. He wasn’t at
our last fight with Setrákus Ra, but he knows it didn’t go well. That was with the whole Garde – now
it’s just me and Nine. Well, and all the guns Agent Walker can bring to bear.
‘I have to be,’ I tell Sanderson.
As we get closer to the front of the UN and the stage, we pass by a guy dressed like a bike
messenger surrounded by a few news cameras. It’s noticeable because he’s the only thing
commanding any press attention around here besides the giant Mogadorian warship. I focus my senses
to hear what he’s saying.
‘I swear, the guy fell out of the sky!’ the bike messenger exclaims to a skeptical press corps. ‘Or
maybe he floated down, I don’t know. He hit the ground hard, but his skin was, like, covered in armor
or something. He looked all sorts of messed up.’
Nine’s hand clamps down on my shoulder. He heard it, too, and he’s so distracted that he stops
telekinetically pushing people aside. The agents escorting us shuffle and groan as the crowd surges in, but they manage to keep them back.
‘You heard that, right?’ Nine asks, his eyes practically glowing with bloodlust.
‘He could just be some nutjob,’ I say, referring to the bike messenger, although I don’t really
believe it. ‘This kind of thing definitely brings them out.’
‘No way,’ Nine says, excitement in his voice. His eyes dart around the crowd with a renewed
interest. ‘Five is here, man. Five is here, and I’m going to smash his fat face in.’
2 7
I feel numb.
In the docking bay, I catch a glimpse of myself in the pearl-colored armor paneling of the small
ship we’ll be taking to Manhattan. I look ghostly. There are huge bags under my eyes. They dressed
me up in a new formal gown, black with red sashes throughout, and pulled my hair back in a ponytail
so severe that my scalp feels like it’s peeling away from my skull. Princess of the Mogadorians.
I don’t really care. I’ve got a cloudy feeling, like I’m just floating along. A part of me knows that I should be focusing up, getting my head straight.
I just can’t.
The entrance to the transport ship opens and a small staircase unfolds for me to climb up. Setrákus
Ra gently places his hand on my shoulder and urges me forward.
‘Here we go, dear,’ he says. His voice sounds far away. ‘Big day.’
I don’t move at first. But then a pain starts up in my shoulder where I was stabbed. It feels like
little worms wiggling around under my skin. The ache only subsides when I put one foot in front of the other, climb up the steps and flop into one of the vessel’s bucket seats.
‘Good,’ Setrákus Ra says, and follows me aboard. He sits down in the pilot’s seat and the ship
seals up behind us. His human form has been restored after his scuffle with Five, and he’s dressed
himself in a sleek black suit with crimson flourishes. The color scheme doesn’t complement the
fatherly human face he’s wearing – it makes him look stern and authoritative. I don’t tell him that, both because I don’t want to help him and because it seems like too much effort to talk.
I wish I could just sleep through this.
They did something to me after the gash opened up on my shoulder. I was in and out of
consciousness from blood loss, so my memory is foggy. I can remember Setrákus Ra carrying me
down to the medical bay, a place on the ship I hadn’t had the bad luck to explore until then. I
remember them injecting my wound with something black and oozing. I’m pretty sure that I screamed
from the pain. But then my wound started to close. It wasn’t like the times I’d been healed by Marina
or John. In those cases, it felt like my injuries were knitting back together, like my flesh was
regrowing. Under the Mogs’ ‘care,’ it felt like my flesh was being replaced by something else,
something cold and foreign. Something alive and hungry.
I can still feel it, crawling around beneath the perfect, pale skin of my now uninjured shoulder.
Setrákus Ra flips a few switches on the console, and our little spherical ship powers up. The walls
become translucent. It’s the Mogadorian version of tinted glass, though – we can see out, but no one
can see in.
I turn my head to study the docking bay that’s crowded with combat-ready Mogadorians. They all
stand perfectly still, hundreds of them arranged in orderly lines, all of them with their fists clenched over their hearts. They’re saluting their Beloved Leader as he sets out to conquer Earth. I look at their pasty, expressionless faces and their dark, empty eyes. Are these my people? Am I becoming one of
them?
It seems easiest to give in.
Setrákus Ra is about to get us moving when a red light flashes on one of his video screens and a
shrill buzzing sounds. The noise wakes me up a little. Some unlucky underling is trying to call
Setrákus Ra right in the middle of his big day. Setrákus Ra’s jaw sets in annoyance at the incoming
message and, for a moment, I think he might ignore it. Finally, he jabs a button and a frazzled
Mogadorian communications officer appears on-screen.
‘What is it?’ snarls Setrákus Ra.
‘Deepest apologies for the interruption, Beloved Leader,’ the officer says, keeping his eyes
downcast. ‘You have an urgent message from Phiri Dun-Ra.’
‘It had better be,’ Setrákus Ra grumbles. He waves a hand impatiently at the screen. ‘Very well.
Put her through.’
The screen flashes, crackles, and then a Mogadorian woman appears. She has two long braids
pinned up around her bald head and a sizable cut above her eyebrow. She’s surrounded on all sides
by jungle. Apparently, a message from this trueborn is important enough to delay our flight down to
New York. I try to sit up a little bit in my seat, fighting through the fog to pay attention.
‘What is it, Phiri?’ Setrákus Ra says, coldly. ‘Why have you contacted me directly?’
The Mog woman, Phiri, hesitates before she speaks. Maybe she’s taken aback by the human face
addressing her with such authority. Or maybe she’s just scared of her Beloved Leader.
‘They’re here,’ Phiri says at last, a note of triumph in her voice. ‘The Garde have activated the
Sanctuary.’
Setrákus Ra leans back in his seat, his eyebrows arched in surprise. He laces his hands in front of
him in consideration.
‘Very good,’ he replies. ‘Excellent. Your orders are to keep them there, Phiri Dun-Ra. On your
life. I will join you shortly.’
‘As you wish, Belo –’
Setrákus Ra severs the connection before Phiri Dun-Ra can finish. The mentions of the Garde and
the Sanctuary have me a little more aware. I try to think of Six and Marina, of John and Nine – I know they would want me to fight through this. It’s just so difficult to keep my mind from going blank, to
keep my body from slouching.
‘For years I’ve pursued them,’ Setrákus Ra says quietly, almost to himself. ‘To wipe out the last bit
of resistance to Mogadorian Progress. To take control of what those Elder fools buried on this planet.
Now, the day has come when everything I’ve fought for will be mine, all at once. Tell me,
granddaughter, how can there be any doubt of Mogadorian superiority?’
He doesn’t really want a response. Setrákus Ra just likes to hear himself talk. I let a slow,
medicated smile form on my face. That seems to please him. My grandfather reaches out and pats me