The Revenge of Seven

by Pittacus Lore

  ‘A lesson in what?’ I spit, glaring at Five.

  Five looks almost relieved that Setrákus Ra’s attention now seems focused on me. ‘May I be excused?’ he asks.

  ‘You may not,’ Setrákus Ra replies.

  From next to one of the ships, Setrákus Ra grabs a cart covered in tools – wrenches, pliers, screwdrivers all made for servicing the Mogadorian ships, but not so different from the ones on Earth – and wheels it over next to us. He looks down at me and smiles.

  ‘Your Legacy, Ella, is called Dreynen. It gives you the ability to temporarily cancel the Legacy of another Garde,’ Setrákus Ra lectures, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘It was one of the rarest on Lorien.’

  I wipe my forearm across my eyes and try to stand up a little straighter. I’m still glaring at Five, but my words are for Setrákus Ra. ‘Why are you telling me this now? I don’t care.’

  ‘It’s important to know one’s history,’ he replies, undeterred. ‘If you believe the Elders, Legacies arose from Lorien to suit the needs of Loric society. I wonder, then, what benefit is derived from a power only useful against other Garde?’

  Five remains perfectly still, refusing to meet my eyes. Distracted by my anger, I forget to moderate my words, to keep it cool.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I snap sarcastically. ‘Maybe Lorien saw freaks like you two coming and knew someone would have to stop you.’

  ‘Ah,’ Setrákus Ra replies, his voice overloaded with professorial smugness, like I’ve stepped right into his trap. ‘But if that is the case, why did the Elders not select you to be among the young Garde saved? And, if Lorien does somehow shape Legacies to suit the needs of the Loric, why would it bestow Legacies to those ill suited to use them? The mere existence of Dreynen suggests a fallibility in Lorien that the Elders would seek to deny. It is chaos that needs to be tamed, not worshipped.’

  I try to take a step towards Five, but Setrákus Ra uses his telekinesis to keep me in place. I choke back my anger and remind myself I’m a prisoner here. I have to play along with Setrákus Ra’s stupid game until the time is right. Revenge will have to wait.

  ‘Ella,’ Setrákus Ra says. ‘Do you understand what I’m telling you?’

  I sigh and turn away from Five to stare dully at Setrákus Ra. Obviously, he already has this whole philosophical lecture mapped out. It’s probably one of the longer sections in his book. There’s no point in trying to argue with him.

  ‘So everything’s random and we should exploit it and blah blah blah,’ I say. ‘Maybe you’re right, maybe you’re wrong. We’ll never know since you went and destroyed the planet.’

  ‘What did I destroy, exactly? A planet, perhaps. But not Lorien itself.’ Setrákus Ra toys with one of the pendants dangling from his neck. ‘It is more complicated than you know, my dear. Soon, your mind will open and you will understand. Until then –’ He reaches over to the cart, plucks up a Mogadorian wrench and tosses it to me, ‘we practise.’

  I snag the wrench out of the air and hold it in front of me. Setrákus Ra turns his attention to Five, still standing there silently, waiting to be dismissed.

  ‘Fly,’ Setrákus Ra orders.

  Five looks up, confused. ‘What?’

  ‘Fly,’ Setrákus Ra repeats, waving to the high ceiling of the docking bay. ‘As high as you can.’

  Five grunts and slowly levitates until he’s about forty feet in the air, his head nearly brushing the rafters of the docking bay. ‘Now what?’ he asks.

  Instead of replying, Setrákus Ra turns to me. I’ve already got an idea what he wants me to do. My palm is sweating against the cold metal of the wrench. He kneels down beside me and lowers his voice.

  ‘I want you to do what you did at the Dulce Base,’ Setrákus Ra says.

  ‘I told you, I don’t know how I did that,’ I protest.

  ‘I know you are afraid. Afraid of me, of your destiny, of this place you find yourself,’ Setrákus Ra says patiently, and for a terrifying moment his voice sounds almost like Crayton. ‘But for you, that fear is a weapon. Close your eyes and let it flow through you. Your Dreynen will follow. It is a hungry thing, this Legacy that lives within you, and it will feed on what you fear.’

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Part of me wants to resist this lesson, my skin crawling at the sound of Setrákus Ra’s voice. But another part of me wants to learn to use my Legacy, no matter the cost. It doesn’t seem so unnatural – there’s an energy inside me that wants to get out. My Dreynen wants to be used.

  When I open my eyes, the wrench glows with red energy. I’ve done it. Just like at Dulce Base.

  ‘Very good, Ella. You can use the Dreynen by touch or, as you have just accomplished, charge objects with it for long-range attacks,’ Setrákus Ra explains. He takes a quick step back when I thrust the wrench towards him. ‘Easy now, my dear.’

  I stare at Setrákus Ra, unblinking, holding the wrench like I might hold a torch if I was trying to scare off a wild animal. I wonder if I could hit him with it, drain his Legacies and then bash his head in. Would Five try to stop me? Would I even be able to pull it off? I’m not yet sure of the full extent of Setrákus Ra’s Legacies, or what other tricks he might have up his sleeve, or what might happen with the charm that now binds us together. But maybe it would be worth it.

  A slow smile spreads across Setrákus Ra’s face, as if he can tell I’m making these mental calculations and he appreciates them.

  ‘Go on,’ he says, and his eyes flick towards the ceiling. ‘You know what to do next. He failed me. And he killed your friend, didn’t he?’

  I know that I should resist, that I shouldn’t do anything Setrákus Ra wants me to do. But the wrench, charged with my Dreynen, feels almost eager in my hand, like it’s hungry and needs release. And then I think of Eight, dead somewhere down on Earth, killed by the chubby boy currently in a midair sulk right above me, who my grandfather apparently has designs about marrying me off to.

  I turn around and hurl the wrench at Five.

  I’m not sure my throw has the accuracy or the distance, so I give it a boost with my telekinesis. Five must see it coming, but he doesn’t try to move out of the way. That’s what makes me start to regret my decision – his resignation and willingness to receive this punishment.

  The wrench hits Five right in the sternum but without much force. Even so, it sticks to his chest like it’s magnetized. He sucks in a sharp breath, his bored look failing him as he claws at the wrench. That only lasts for a second, though, until the glow briefly intensifies and Five plummets out of the air.

  Five’s landing is ugly; his legs crumple beneath him, his hands fail to brace the impact and his shoulder cracks against the floor. He ends up lying on his face, breathing hard. He tries to pick himself up, but his arm isn’t quite working right, and he only manages to push himself an inch off the floor before sagging back down. The wrench falls from his chest, the damage done, his Legacies canceled. Setrákus Ra pats me approvingly on the back. That’s when I really start to feel some guilt, seeing Five like that, even knowing what he did to Eight. It occurs to me that maybe he’s just as much a prisoner as I am.

  ‘Get yourself to the infirmary,’ Setrákus Ra orders Five. ‘I do not care what you do about your eye, but I need you able-bodied when we descend to Earth.’

  ‘Yes, Beloved Leader,’ Five croaks, straining his neck to look up at us.

  ‘That was well done,’ Setrákus Ra says to me as he shepherds me towards the exit. ‘Come. We will return to your studies of the Great Book.’

  Even though I’m still furious about what he did to Eight, as we pass Five’s prone body, I reach out to him telepathically. I refuse to lose my sense of right and wrong while I’m stuck here.

  I’m sorry, I tell him.

  I don’t think he’ll answer, considering how he could barely even look at me before. Just as I’m about to cut off our telepathic link, his response comes.

  I’m fine, he replies. I deserved it.

  You deserve wors
e than that, I reply, although I can’t quite manage the malice I want. It’s hard while I’m mentally picturing Eight, laughing, joking around with me and Marina.

  I know, Five responds. I didn’t– I’m sorry, Ella.

  I pick up something else from his mind. That’s never happened before – maybe my Legacy is getting stronger. I don’t think too much about it, because through my mind’s eye I’m seeing Eight’s body, left behind on purpose in an empty hangar. I try to make sense of the image, but Five’s thoughts are a confused jumble. There are so many conflicting impulses in his brain, and I’m not a skilled enough telepath to make sense of them all.

  I’ve already walked past him, but after our telepathic conversation, I hazard a glance over my shoulder. Five has managed to prop himself up. He works a metal ball bearing across his knuckles, over and under, waiting for his Legacies to return. He looks right at me.

  We have to get out of here, he thinks.

  17

  Ashwood Estates is quiet just before sunrise, a light fog greeting the gray day. I could hardly sleep, which isn’t exactly a new development. I sit next to the living-room window in Adam’s old house and take cell-phone photographs of the documents Agent Walker turned over, sending them on to Sarah. We’re going to leak them online via They Walk Among Us, because at least that way we can ensure the information gets out there. Walker has a list of journalists and other media people who she believes to be trustworthy, but she’s got a list the same length of reporters in the pocket of MogPro. There’s no surefire way to get this intel out there except on our own. It’s going to be an uphill battle. In the years we’ve spent on the run, the Mogadorians have gotten too far ahead, become too entrenched in the military, government and even the media. The smartest thing they ever did was chase us into hiding.

  According to Walker, it’s going to take something big to turn the tide. She wants us to cut the head off MogPro, meaning take out the secretary of defense. I’m not sure how that’s supposed to get us any support from humanity. Walker says we can carry out the assassination covertly. I haven’t decided if we’re going along with that part of the plan, but it’s okay to let Walker think we’re down with doing her dirty work. For now.

  More important than Sanderson, we’re supposed to expose Setrákus Ra, using whatever human-Mog photo op he’s got planned for the United Nations against him. The plan is to make a big enough scene that humanity will see the Mogs for what they really are and rally against the invasion. A population that’s been duped for a decade will finally be out of the dark. Once the humans see aliens firsthand, we’re hoping people will take a niche site like They Walk Among Us seriously. I just hope we figure out a way to pull all this off. Without dying.

  Dark thoughts still gnaw at me. Even if we manage to form a resistance bigger and stronger than the ragtag bunch we’ve assembled at Ashwood Estates, there’s no guarantee we can turn back the Mogadorians. For as long as I’ve been on Earth, our war with the Mogadorians has been fought in the shadows. Now, we’re about to involve millions of innocent people. It seems like all we’re struggling for is to give humanity and us remaining Loric the opportunity to fight a long and bloody war. I wonder if this is what the Elders had planned for us. Were we supposed to have already defeated the Mogs with humanity none the wiser? Or was their plan when they sent us to Earth just as desperate as ours is now?

  No wonder I can’t sleep.

  Through the window, I watch a couple of FBI agents share a cigarette on the porch across the street. I guess I’m not the only one suffering from impending invasion insomnia. We let Walker’s people camp out in the empty houses around Ashwood. They secured the perimeter, guards posted at the gate Adam and I wrecked earlier in the day, pretty much making this place the home base of the brand-new Human-Loric Resistance.

  I still don’t entirely trust Agent Walker or her people, but the looming war has forced me to take on a lot of strange allies. So far, they’ve panned out. If my luck with trusting old enemies doesn’t hold, well, we’re pretty much all doomed anyway. Desperate times call for desperate measures and all that.

  The floorboards creak behind me and I turn around to find Malcolm standing in the doorway leading up from the Mogadorian tunnels. His eyes are droopy with exhaustion and he’s in the process of stifling a yawn.

  ‘Morning,’ I say, closing up the folder of Walker’s documents.

  ‘Already?’ Malcolm replies, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘I lost track of time down there. Sam and Adam were helping me earlier. I thought I just forced them to take a break a little while ago.’

  ‘That was hours ago,’ I reply. ‘Did you spend your entire night going through those Mogadorian recordings?’

  Malcolm nods his head mutely, and I realize that he’s more than just overtired. He’s got the punch-drunk look of a man who’s just witnessed something shocking.

  ‘What did you find?’ I ask.

  ‘Me,’ he answers after a moment’s pause. ‘I found myself.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think you’d better gather the others’ is his only reply before he disappears back into the tunnels.

  Marina is asleep in one of the upstairs bedrooms, so I wake her up first. As she heads downstairs, she pauses in front of the master bedroom; once upon a time it was occupied by the General and Adam’s mother, but now it’s the temporary resting place for Eight. Marina lays her hand gently on the doorframe as she passes. I noticed when I woke her that she’s taken to wearing Eight’s pendant. I wish there was more time for me to grieve with her.

  Adam is asleep in the remaining upstairs bedroom, his sword propped against the side of the bed within arm’s reach. I hesitate for only a moment before waking him, too. He’s one of us now. He proved that yesterday when he saved my life from the General. Whatever Malcolm’s discovered on those Mogadorian recordings, Adam’s insight could be invaluable.

  Sam and the rest of the Garde slept elsewhere in Ashwood Estates, so I dispatch some Chimærae to track them down. Nine shows up after a few minutes, his long hair all unkempt and wild, looking about as fatigued as I feel.

  ‘I slept on the roof,’ he explains when I shoot him a weird look.

  ‘Uh, why?’

  ‘Somebody had to keep an eye on those government dorks you’ve got camping out.’

  I shake my head and follow him down the steps into the tunnels. Malcolm and the others I’d gotten hold of are already assembled in the Mogadorian archives, silent and uneasy, Marina sitting about as far from Adam as possible.

  ‘Sam and Six?’ Malcolm asks me when I enter.

  I shrug my shoulders. ‘The Chimærae are looking for them.’

  ‘I saw them go into one of the abandoned houses,’ Nine says, a sly smile on his face. I give him a questioning look and he wiggles his eyebrows at me. ‘End of the world, you know, Johnny.’

  I’m not sure exactly what Nine means until Six and Sam come hustling through the door. Six is all business, her hair pulled back, looking like she’s cleaned up and gotten some good rest since her ordeal in the swamp. Sam, on the other hand, is flushed, his hair sticking up at odd angles, and his shirt is buttoned all wrong. Sam catches me studying him and turns a darker shade of red, giving me a sheepish smile. I shake my head in disbelief, fighting back a grin in spite of the dour mood. Nine whistles between his teeth and a smile even flits briefly across Marina’s face. All this only causes Sam to blush more, and for Six to increase the defiant look she’s skewering us with.

  Malcolm, of course, is oblivious to all this. He’s focused instead on the computer, queuing up one of the Mogadorian videos.

  ‘Good. We’re all here,’ Malcolm says, glancing up from the keyboard. He looks around the room, almost nervously. ‘I feel like a failure, having to show you this.’

  Sam’s post-hookup blush turns into a look of concern. ‘What do you mean, Dad?’

  ‘I –’ Malcolm shakes his head. ‘They tore this information out of me and even now, having seen w
hat I’m about to show you, I don’t actually remember it. I let you all down.’

  ‘Malcolm, come on,’ I say.

  ‘We’ve all made mistakes,’ Marina says, and I notice her gaze drift towards Nine. ‘Done things we regret.’

  Malcolm nods. ‘Regardless. Late in the game as it is, I still hope this video will show another way forward.’

  Six tilts her head. ‘Another way instead of what?’

  ‘Instead of total war,’ Malcolm answers. ‘Watch.’

  Malcolm presses a button on the keyboard and the video screen on the wall comes to life. The face of a gaunt, older Mogadorian appears. His narrow head fills most of the screen, but in the background a room similar to this one is visible. The Mogadorian begins speaking in his harsh language, his tone sounding formal and academic, even though I can’t understand him.

  ‘Am I supposed to be able to understand this creep?’ Nine asks.

  ‘He’s Dr Lockram Anu,’ Adam says, translating. ‘He created the memory machine that … well, you know. You chucked a piece of it at a helicopter last night, actually.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ Nine says, grinning. ‘That was fun.’

  Adam continues. ‘This is old, taped during the machine’s first trials. He’s introducing a test subject, one he says was mentally tougher than the others he’s worked on. He’ll be demonstrating how his machine can be utilized for interrogation …’

  Adam trails off as Dr Anu steps aside, revealing a younger Malcolm Goode strapped into an insanely complicated metal chair. Malcolm is thin and pale, the muscles in his neck standing out, largely thanks to the awkward angle his head is forced to recline at. His wrists are buckled to the titanium arms of the chair; an IV cord runs into the back of his hand, nutrients arriving via a nearby bag. An assortment of electrodes are stuck to his face and chest, their cords attached to the circuit boards of Dr Anu’s machine. His eyes stare directly into the camera, but they’re unfocused and unblinking.

  ‘Dad, oh my God,’ Sam says quietly.