The warship captain there begins a full-scale bombardment of the city a few hours after Adam interrupted Phiri Dun-Ra’s speech. This captain claims the destruction is in honor of Beloved Leader, a fiery sacrifice for Setrákus Ra’s death. Adam explains that he’s showing off; the captain wants to look good in case Setrákus Ra is alive, and position himself for leadership if he’s not.
Images of the opera house in flames, the bridge behind it collapsing, are broadcast on the world’s few remaining news channels. It’s hard to watch, knowing that our lie about Setrákus Ra caused this. Adam looks like he’s going to be sick. Lawson shakes his head, his lined face grim.
“Psychological warfare has costs,” he says matter-of-factly. I get the feeling he’d have a different outlook if this was an American city burning. “If it’s any consolation, my sources tell me that Sydney was mostly evacuated.”
“Mostly,” Adam repeats.
“Yes, mostly,” Lawson replies. “Collateral damage can’t always be avoided. It’s horrible, but you learn to live with it.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t have expected so much empathy from one of your kind.”
Adam eyes the general. “Right.”
I don’t say anything. I just make a mental note of the Mogadorian’s name. Rezza El-Doth. I add him to the list of Mogs that I’m going to kill.
It’s the middle of the night. The three of us—myself, Adam, Lawson—are the only ones still down in the monitoring room hours after Adam’s surprise broadcast. The others went to get some rest, something that I should probably be doing but don’t feel at all capable of. Instead, I slouch in a chair and listen as Adam robotically describes the various transmissions going out over the Mog comms. Next to me, Lawson keeps an eye on a tablet computer, monitoring reports from around the world.
“I admire the moxie it took for a stunt like that,” Lawson continues. “You had to know there’d be consequences. You did the math and calculated that the benefits outweighed the costs. Of course, if it hadn’t played out in our favor, we’d be having a different conversation, wouldn’t we?”
I glance at Lawson. He stares at me, appraising. Again I stay silent. He’s right, though. As soon as Adam told me about the dissension among the Mogs in Setrákus Ra’s absence, I knew we had to exploit it. Adam agreed. Like Lawson said, I knew there might be dangers.
I didn’t care.
Sydney went bad, but in other locations, Adam’s announcement had better effects.
In Beijing, where the Chinese army has been resisting the Mogadorians heavily and pursuing some pretty reckless counterattacks, the Mogs actually pulled their Skimmers back to the warship. The captain declared he wanted to hear from Setrákus Ra before he wasted any more of his vatborn on securing the city. No response has come from West Virginia, which means a reprieve for the Chinese.
Meanwhile, the warship captain in Moscow declared himself the new Beloved Leader. I guess he got himself a big head after seeing how quickly the Russians complied with his occupation effort. This declaration didn’t sit well with the captain of the warship stationed in Berlin; he diverted his ship to attempt to assassinate the usurper.
The two warships met over Kazakhstan and started blowing each other apart. Luckily, this happened over the Kazakh Steppe, which is hardly populated. Because of the lack of eyes on the scene, reports out of the area are sketchy. We aren’t sure if they destroyed each other, fought to a stalemate, or if one of them came out victorious. There’s no bad result for us, though.
And, maybe best of all, the warship positioned over S?o Paulo simply left. It floated up, out of the atmosphere, and is apparently orbiting the moon. The ship has gone completely radio silent. No idea what’s going on with that guy.
The rest of the Mog fleet ignored Adam, choosing to believe Phiri Dun-Ra. Still, the cracks were beginning to show. They weren’t an unstoppable force. Three warships out of the fray, and we never left Patience Creek. Still twenty to go, but we’re making progress.
Yet something about this victory feels hollow to me. It isn’t satisfying. My hands are too clean.
With both Adam and me lost in thoughtful silence, Lawson continues to reflect on our success. “A strategic risk,” he says thoughtfully. “You boys would make fine generals one day.”
“I intend to do the rest of my fighting on the front lines,” I say, finally breaking my silence.
“Well, that’s a young man’s prerogative,” Lawson replies. He stands up and cracks his back. In the hours since we hijacked the Mogadorian discussion, things have calmed down. No new developments have come in for some time, just the usual status reports. I think our ploy has produced all the results it’s going to.
Lawson looks down at me. “It’s late. Or rather, it is now very early. I’m going to get some shut-eye before we mount this operation. You should do the same, John.”
I give the general a lazy salute, and he replies with a thin smile. The old man nods curtly to Adam and exits, leaving the two of us alone. Adam sits slumped in front of the console, his eyes bleary.
“You planning to sleep at all?” I ask him.
“Are you?” he counters.
We settle in.
I cross my arms and let my chin rest against my chest. I get an occasional jolt from a snarling Mogadorian’s voice coming over the comm, but Adam doesn’t bother translating any of it, which means it can’t be important. We’re going to board one of those warships in just a few hours. It’s going to be the first combat I’ve faced since I started collecting Legacies, my first chance to test out these new powers.
My first chance for some revenge.
I really should sleep. It’s irresponsible of me to keep avoiding it. But the last time I tried, all that I could see was her face. . . .
I can’t keep doing this to myself.
I stand up and stretch my arms over my head. They feel heavy. Everything does. The air feels thick, almost like I’m swimming through it. Finally, that feeling of exhaustion I’ve been chasing after since we got here is beginning to set in.
“You’ll come get me if anything major happens, right?” I ask Adam.
He doesn’t reply. He keeps his face turned away, intently staring at the console. The Mogadorian communications have gone eerily silent. For some reason, instead of asking Adam what the hell is up, I say nothing and just step out of the room.
And into a cavern.
This isn’t Patience Creek.
I’ve been here before.
I’m in a long, dimly lit corridor. The walls are rust-colored stone augmented with steel beams. The air is hot and musty and stinks like something rotten and alive. I do a quick 360 and try to orient myself. If I go down the hall in the direction where it gently slopes down, I know I’ll reach the breeding area where piken, krauls, and any number of other twisted beasts are created. If I go uphill, towards where the lights are brighter, I’ll eventually reach a row of cells.
This is West Virginia, under the mountain. The headquarters of the Mogadorians.
I feel pulled towards the cells, so I begin to walk slowly in that direction. Muffled screams reach me from up ahead. Even so, I keep my walking pace casual and relaxed.
I’m not stupid. This is a dream. And I’m happy to play along.
I know who’s waiting for me up ahead, and I’m glad. I want to look him in the eyes.
I reach the area where an alcove in the cave has been filled with claustrophobic cells. Each reinforced door is equipped with a bulletproof glass porthole to spy on the dank conditions inside. The first few cells I pass are empty. Then I come across one where a dark-haired girl presses her face against the glass. Her eyes and mouth have been stitched permanently closed with wire.
It’s Six.
I stare at her. I make a point to let my eyes linger, to let the terror and revulsion wash over me.
It isn’t real. He’s trying to mess with me, and it isn’t going to work.
Another horrific vision greets me in the next cell. Nine, back when I first met him, except now there’s a bedsheet tied around his neck, and he dangles from a rafter. I don’t spend so much time staring at that one, mostly because I don’t buy it for a second.