[Lorien Legacies 05.7] The Lost Files: The Guard

by Pittacus Lore

  I jet through the darkness, the night wind whipping against my face, and as I race through the streets, I can’t help but laugh at the fact that, against all odds, I have somehow managed to escape. My coat flaps behind me in the wind, and without warning, my thoughts go to my brother, Zane. I wonder if this is what he felt like when he was flying.

  It’s only after a few miles that the shock starts to wear off and I realize that Janus’s ship—no, it’s not his anymore—that my ship is being held by what is likely a veritable army of Mogadorians and government agents.

  How am I ever supposed to recover it?

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT’S NOT DIFFICULT TO GET BACK TO MY BASE once I’m out of Dulce.

  I ditch the police bike in the first city I come to, figuring I look a little too out of place on it not to arouse suspicion. I catch a bus, the first one that’s heading east. The desert slowly fades into green pastures.

  In Texas I get a new ride. I opt for a motorbike of my own this time. I’ll pick up another SUV later, but for now I want to feel the wind on my body, to hear it rushing past the black helmet I buy, drowning out all thoughts of what I’m supposed to do now that I know the Garde can’t be reunited at this time and that my ship is being guarded by forces I’ll probably never be able to take on single-handedly. Not in a fight, at least. I can’t help but dwell on the fact that the Mog presence on Earth is much, much deeper and more expansive than I ever imagined.

  Or is it? Maybe Dulce is an anomaly. It might be the only place where the Mogs and the government are working hand in hand. Those could be the only Mogs on this planet, for all I know. The scant amount of intel I had on Janus and the ship meant that it should have been somewhere in the northeastern part of the country. And yet the Mogs or the FBI—whoever found it—took it across the country. Why transport it all the way to New Mexico, unless that was the only place to hide it?

  More questions. Each time one is answered, five more come up.

  There has to be something else I can do. I can’t just sit around this planet for the next few years waiting for the last of the Garde to develop their Legacies, counting on them to reemerge as unstoppable war machines.

  I’m near the Texas-Arkansas border when I realize my goals haven’t changed all that much. Sure, the ship is a setback, but my other concerns—figuring out what the hell the Mogs are doing on this planet—are still relevant. Only now the focus has shifted. Instead of being concerned with what they’re doing here, I should be trying to figure out how they’re operating. Maybe Dulce is just the beginning of their campaign on this planet. If so, there may still be time to stop them. If the Mogadorians are only beginning to infiltrate the government, maybe there’s still time to save humanity.

  All I have to do is figure out how deep the corruption runs and then expose it. In a way it’s the same thing I was attempting to do on Lorien. Only now it’s not my people I’m trying to push into action but another planet entirely. One that has no idea that there are not only intelligent beings throughout the universe, but that they’ve already infiltrated Earth.

  But how do I convince a world full of people who might not be exactly open to the idea that they’re not alone in this galaxy?

  When I get back to Yellowhammer, with its useless gate and rolling hills, I go straight to the back office. I type up a letter explaining to the human race who the Mogadorians are and that the Earth’s governments may have been infiltrated by these bloodthirsty monsters. I give a firsthand account of what I saw at Dulce. When I’m done, my fingers hover over the keyboard. I can get the word out. I can manipulate code and make it so that this article is on the front page of every popular website on the internet. No one would be able to ignore it. I could link it to all the evidence I’ve gathered on the Mogs and Loric on Earth so far so that the human race could help me protect my people.

  But I hesitate. I think again about what I’m doing. Even if I leave out any mention of the Loric, uploading this information is a hostile act against the Mogs. Exposing them will surely have consequences.

  What if in trying to warn Earth about what’s going on I push the Mogs to act themselves? To invade, or conquer. Or the Garde to come out of hiding, long before they’re ready to do so.

  What if I inadvertently start an interplanetary war?

  I stare at my screen for what feels like a long time. Eventually I save the document I’ve written but keep it to myself.

  I realize that maybe I’ve been thinking on too large a scale. Before I try to get the entire human race on my side, I can start with just a few. Seek out those who already think that there might be life on Mars or Jupiter or hiding in Orion’s Belt. I know they’re out there. I’ve read their messages in forums and chat rooms and on message boards. I’ve inspected their blog posts, trying to figure out if they’re insane or if maybe the close encounters they’ve described were with the Loric, or the Mogs. Malcolm is proof that they exist, that they’re passionate and that they can be helpful—though, having seen him and his son together, I don’t think I’d want to push him into endangering his family anymore.

  I can gather a small troop of spies and informants. People I can send to do investigations while I stay out of sight. It’ll be tricky weeding out the best candidates, but worthwhile. I’ll find those without families. People without ties or attachments. People like me. Slowly but surely, I can introduce them to what I’m really doing—who our real enemy is.

  They’re my starting point. Just like Pittacus started with Malcolm. There are believers all across this planet. I just need to reach out to them.

  In between fortifying the security of the ranch and its surrounding area, I set up a website. It looks normal enough—like a dozen other conspiracy theory web pages or sites dedicated to proving the existence of aliens—only this one is built on my code, set to harvest the data of anyone who visits it. With that kind of information, I can win over anyone. And who knows: if the Mogs stumble across it, maybe I’ll be able to track them as well.

  I call it “Aliens Anonymous.”

  When it’s time to create my own identity on the site, I pause, staring at the cursor blinking on-screen. I need not just a username, but a new persona. Someone I can establish as a trustworthy figure so that I can gather allies. A person I can be for a long time.

  I think of the Garde and what I’m trying to do. After a few seconds I tap out a single word:

  GUARD.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SLOWLY, YELLOWHAMMER RANCH STARTS TO change. It begins with the installation of cameras throughout the property, along with several traps and hidden automated weapons. Once the perimeter feels secure, I focus on the inside of the house. I seal up the windows to the office, fortifying the walls, turning it into a safe room. I replace the normal door with a blast door that will only open when my fingerprint is scanned, and hide that behind a quilt I pull off one of the extra beds and hang on the wall. If anyone was to search the house, they’d likely have no idea there was a room in the back unless they really started calculating measurements. If I was ever attacked, the room would protect me. At least for a little while, long enough for me to reload my weapons and perform a few last-second computer operations. The only weak spot when I’m done with my renovations is the floor. That’s where I plant the small, remote-activated explosive device I put together from parts purchased on the darker sections of the internet.

  The bomb is an emergency fail-safe, though it’s perhaps odd to think of it in those terms. It’s not protection for me, really, but for the Garde. If something were to happen—if it looked like I’d lost the ranch—just a few clicks in a program and I could ensure that all my work and information went up in flames. I’d rather it be destroyed than fall into Mog hands.

  Even though I know better than to try to reunite the other Loric, I do my best to serve as their guardian. I continue to delete any news stories that sound even the least bit connected to them, saving copies for myself so that I can in some way keep a sense of where
some of the Garde might be.

  For the most part, I don’t find much. I hope that means that the Garde are settled safely, in hiding. Establishing new identities. Getting stronger.

  Although I’m diligent, I can’t help but think that I’m missing things. I’m only one person, and this planet is so much bigger than Lorien. Still, I do my best. The users of “Aliens Anonymous” are sometimes helpful, my team of informants growing. They’ve pointed me to a few events or news pieces that look as though Mogs may be involved. It’s difficult to weed through them all, though. Many of the users who flock to the website are lunatics or trolls, a term I’ve learned and often witnessed in action since starting “Aliens Anonymous.”

  But there are some who are true believers, who give me useful information and follow my suggestions when I say that they should investigate their theories further and report back to me. I keep myself at a distance from them, putting their data to use but trying not to dwell on the particulars of their lives too much. They work with me, but I am alone. A few of them lose interest. One or two disappear completely. I tell myself that they too have just grown bored.

  I track my enemy’s movements as well, trying to think like a Mogadorian. I learn about the sighting of weird spacecrafts in West Virginia, the descriptions similar to some of the Mogadorian ships I’ve seen, and of tattooed gangs seen in various parts of the world. It has been more difficult to suss out information about their involvement with the US government than I had expected. The FBI and other agencies have firewalls unlike anything I’ve ever seen—much too advanced for this planet. It’s my assumption that, along with whatever promises the Mogs are making to the United States, they’re also offering them technology. It reminds me of the Grid on Lorien, but even more advanced. Impenetrable. I refrain from pushing too much for fear that this technology could track me in ways I never imagined. What I need is an in, like when the Grid failed on Lorien and I was able to get my own hardware attached to the system.

  I don’t know how I’m going to get that, though, because the last thing I want to do is go storming some Mog base again.

  The ship is never far from my mind. I draw out blueprints and write down everything I can remember about the computer systems and construction of ships from my time at the LDA. I try to estimate what state it might be in after the long trek from Lorien to Earth. I doubt its power crystals could handle another intergalactic flight, and so I try to figure out how I might adapt the ship’s power core to run on the fuel systems available on this planet. My research delves further into engineering than my actual training ever took me at the LDA and is mostly hypothetical. Still, I start to build a few preliminary adapters and secondary power sources. I want to be prepared.

  I keep tabs on Dulce as much as I can. It seems like my fears have been realized. The sheriff and officers I left behind are found dead, and the blame gets put on drug cartels moving through the area. Soon after that the town slowly dissipates and dries up. A private investor buys most of the land. I track the funds back to a few dummy accounts. It’s obvious that the Mogs or the FBI are responsible. I manage to hack into a satellite feed that gives me a visual of the base during the day—after a decryption program is run over the images—but it’s neither detailed nor very helpful. Still, I keep the feed running on one of my many monitors at all times. If they move my ship, I want to know about it. I catch a few Mog transporters moving on video. I save these clips and add them to my growing info bomb: a digital packet of information I’ve gathered about the Mogs, about their history on Lorien and even my own writing about what happened to my home planet and my experience in Dulce. Earth is not ready for this information. The Garde are not ready for this to be revealed. But one day soon they will be.

  Time passes. I gather intel. I like to think I’m helping, but I’m not sure.

  Two years blink by and I decide to leave Yellowhammer Ranch. I get too comfortable in the wooden farmhouse, too familiar with the rolling hills. The place suddenly starts to feel claustrophobic. I don’t abandon it completely—it could still come in handy—but I gather most of my equipment and all of my data and leave for a new secluded location in the Oregon woods. It’s there that I finally get a glimpse into Agent Purdy’s personal files thanks to his incompetent assistant, who likes to work on unprotected wireless networks in coffee shops. I manage to get into Purdy’s email account and read through a few messages detailing an operation code-named MogPro. It’s mentioned in passing, never defined, but I understand that it has something to do with Mog infiltration of the government. I take some screen grabs and save a few files, but after a couple of minutes in his email account, my computer completely freaks out. It crashes, not in a way I’ve ever seen before. I fear I’ve been discovered.

  I leave Oregon minutes later, never looking back.

  I move often after that, setting up safe houses around the country. The deeper I dig, the less safe I feel staying in one place for too long. But moving has its downsides. I’m in the midst of relocating when a blog post slips through the cracks:

  Nine, now eight. Are the rest of you out there?

  By the time I see it and wipe it away, it’s too late. I trace the poster’s IP address to a physical address in London. After that it only takes a few minutes to discover that a twelve-year-old girl was found murdered there shortly after the post went up.

  One of the Garde, no doubt. If her math was correct, that means she was Number Two. If she’s dead, that means so is One, and likely their Cêpans.

  Our numbers continue to decrease.

  And our allies keep disappearing. I keep track of Malcolm Goode, but not long after I met with him, he disappears, leaving his truck and glasses behind in a grocery store parking lot in Paradise. I go back to the message board I used to find him in the first place and try to track down the others he corresponded with. Their years-old communications lead me to other dead ends or, more often, missing persons.

  The authorities don’t seem to have any leads on where Malcolm might be—they posit that he might even have left on his own—but I have no doubt that the Mogadorians or the FBI tracked him down. When I read this news, something inside my gut twists, and all I can see is the face of the little boy standing outside of Malcolm’s office, staring up at me. At least the rest of the Goodes seem to be safe. I shudder to think that the Mogs might be using them to try to get information out of Malcolm. I consider going back to Paradise and taking them to one of my safe houses. But would they go? If not, would I take them against their will? Should I even risk exposing myself at all by going back to Ohio?

  No. That’s not my place or role in all this. I coordinate from behind the scenes. I warned Malcolm they would find him. I did everything I could. He should have left.

  When I’m not moving or researching, I gather weapons, ammunition, medical supplies, cash—any and all resources that might come in handy. I plant caches of them in my safe houses, which I no longer view as my own but as places that the Garde may one day use.

  When they’re ready. When they’re strong.

  One day soon they’ll make a move, and I’ll be watching, waiting to finally expose the Mogadorians on Earth and help the last of my people destroy them.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  BY THE TIME THE MOGS MAKE THEIR BIG PLAY in Paradise, years have passed and I’ve settled into a new base: an old orchard and pecan-processing plant in Georgia.

  It’s so obvious to me when I read the reports—both public and those I find in the Paradise Police Department’s files—that this is a Mog incident. Something big. The Mogs wouldn’t just attack a high school without a reason. Especially not one that happened to be located in the small town where Malcolm Goode lived.

  I think back to what Malcolm had told me about one of the Cêpans saying he’d return to Paradise when his Garde was of age. When I find the YouTube clip of a boy who goes by the name John Smith basically flying out of a burning house, my assumptions are confirmed. At least one of the Garde faced off against the M
ogs in Ohio.

  I write up a big story on “Aliens Anonymous,” positing that the incident at Paradise High School is somehow related to alien activity. I don’t mention the Mogs or Loric by name. The trick to running this blog is playing dumb and never really showing off what I know. I’m baiting the hook, trying to find someone who has more information. The website has grown to have a dedicated user base over the years, and typically it doesn’t take too long for someone to bite.

  I don’t get the full story until a user named JOLLYROGER182 contacts me through the site. He tells me what happened at the high school and about the “evil ETs” that he and some of his friends fought off. Within no time, I deduce that his real name is Mark James based on the information he gives out (a love of football, his ex-girlfriend’s name), which I cross-reference against information I find in the Paradise Police Department’s files on the burning down of the James’s residence. He thinks he’s being really sly, but his internet activity is an open book to me until I teach him how to block his IP address and send encrypted messages.

  It’s not until I discover that he’s met Number Four and Number Six that I get really interested. Not only am I finally messaging with someone who has had direct contact with some of my people, but from Mark’s stories it sounds as though the Garde are finally coming together. I can’t help but feel a rush of adrenaline knowing that after all these years the work and planning I’ve been doing might finally be useful, that we can expose the Mogs and the FBI soon.

  At first Mark is just another informant. I dumb down my speech and feign excitement when he first brings up the words “Mog” and “Loric,” as if I’ve never heard them before. He seems harmless enough, and I assume his interest will eventually die down—until he mentions that his ex-girlfriend, Sarah Hart, is dating Number Four. When I read this, I almost can’t believe my eyes. Here’s my possible direct link to the Garde. I try to get any information that I can about Four’s whereabouts, but it seems that neither Mark nor Sarah knows where he and Six went when they left Paradise. It feels like something big is about to happen. The Garde and Mogs are coming out into the open. War is finally upon us.