I peer up at the sky while Lawson speaks. Could I do it again? Take on another warship the way I’m feeling? I flex my hands, feeling the burning sensation in my fingers that I haven’t been able to shake. I asked Marina to use her healing Legacy on them, but she said she couldn’t sense anything wrong. The only explanation is that I pushed my powers too far, and this is my body showing it. Just like we can’t heal exhaustion, we can’t heal Legacy burnout.
How much more fighting can I do before I need a serious rest? A rest. That’s funny. As if there’s time for that with warships still hovering over twenty-odd cities, simply waiting for Setrákus Ra to finish his sick experiments, finish getting stronger, before finally attacking. There’s no time to rest. So the question becomes, how far can I push myself—how much damage can I do—before I finally collapse?
Guess I’ll find out.
“I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, make sure your people are ready to launch the attack as soon as possible.”
Before Lawson can respond, I hang up.
Finished with the Loralite stone, Ella walks back over to me. I toss her the satellite phone, and she catches it with two hands.
“Tell the others they should coordinate with Lawson on delivering the cloaking devices,” I say. “We’ll meet in West Virginia. Bring the warship. We’ll take down the Anubis and finish off Setrákus Ra.”
“Um, okay,” Ella says, and raises an eyebrow. “What are you going to do?”
I gaze in the direction of our stolen warship, still visible on the horizon.
“I’m going for a repeat performance.”
Ella’s eyes widen. “Another warship?”
“I’m just getting warmed up.”
“Wait, John—”
Before Ella can try to talk me out of it, I’m back in the air, streaking away from Niagara Falls. This is how it has to be. I need to keep going. No matter how tired I feel, I need to keep fighting.
The sun is already getting low in the sky. It took the better part of the day to get up here, to take that warship, to organize everyone. Too slow. Pushing myself to fly faster, an odd sensation that’s a bit like diving upwards into a pool, I decide that I’ll head for DC. I’m not a GPS, I don’t know exactly where I’m going but I figure that if I head southeast I’ll start to see landmarks and cities that I recognize and, eventually, my target.
I tell myself that I’ll be faster this way, more efficient, and that it’s ultimately safer for the others. Even so, I think, I should’ve at least brought Bernie Kosar along. He and Dust watching my back was invaluable, and he would’ve fit right into the pocket of my vest until I needed him.
Oh, damn it. My vest.
I look down at myself and cringe. I’m an idiot. I took some major volleys of blaster fire during my assault on that warship. The cloaking device I had strapped to my chest along with the battery pack that provided its juice are both completely fried. I’m flying around with two useless pieces of plastic strapped to my body.
With a disgusted shake of my head, I unclip the vest and let it fall to the ground below.
I can’t go back to Niagara Falls. Ella will have definitely told the others by now, and they’ll try to talk me out of going off on my own. Part of me knows this is a crazy idea that wouldn’t stand up to Six and Marina getting in my face. No, can’t go back there.
I’ll have to make a stop at Patience Creek. I’ve got a better chance of not facing any lectures there.
Luckily, I’m not too far from Lake Erie, and once I get close it’s not all that hard for me to retrace the flight path that Lexa took earlier today. After only a few swoops in wrong directions—and one stretch where I found myself stuck in a bank of clouds unable to navigate—I see the faux bed-and-breakfast on the lakeshore. Even with the wrong turns, the trip was still quicker than in our ship. And I’ve only just begun pushing this flight Legacy.
My plan is to fly in through the cavern a few miles south of the complex, shoot through the tunnel and enter directly into the underground garage, where I know the cloaking devices are kept. In and out. Except when I glide by the main cottage, something doesn’t look quite right.
The sun is just beginning to set, causing the trees to cast long shadows across the grounds. I know for a fact that Lawson had a few soldiers hidden out here, acting as sentries. Maybe the weird lighting is messing with my vision, but I swear I don’t see them.
I fly lower and notice something else. There’s a black government SUV parked in the gravel driveway right in front of the house. That’s unusual. This place has been kept such a secret because everyone uses the cavern entrance. None of Lawson’s people would be dumb enough to park a blatant government vehicle right in front of this top secret location.
But then I remember, I loaned one of those cars to someone else. For a personal matter.
Mark James.
I come in for a landing a few yards from Patience Creek’s porch. To my left, the tire swing attached to an old maple tree sways gently back and forth. Everything seems quiet and normal, but I’m getting a weird sense that I’m being watched.
I see Mark right away. He stands in the doorway to Patience Creek, his back to me. Last time I saw him, he was a mess and punched me in the face. Now he’s stiff, his head cocked in a strange way.
“Mark,” I say cautiously. “You’re back.”
He turns to me, his motions all herky-jerky. I see it immediately—how pale his skin is, the dark-black veins that make a spiderweb across his cheek. Mark’s eyes are wide. He’s crying, but other than that his face is completely devoid of emotion. I note that his fingers are clenched into claws, like he’s paralyzed.
“I’m—I’m sorry, John,” he manages to stammer out.
“Mark—”
“They muh—muh—made me.”
I almost manage to spin around in time. Three tendrils of black ooze lance towards me, the tip of each one sharpened like a drill bit. One pierces the back of my shoulder, the other shoots through my hip and the third penetrates my armpit as I raise my hand to defend myself. It’s like being stabbed by something living, something that burrows. I feel the tendrils digging deeper into me. My healing Legacy kicks in, tries to fight them off. When it does, an acidic burning washes over my every nerve ending. I scream and fall to my knees.
“We did make him,” says a cheery female voice. “But we didn’t have to try very hard.”
I recognize her from the Mog communicator and from the others’ stories. The trueborn standing over me is Phiri Dun-Ra.
I twist around in the grass to get a look at her. Phiri Dun-Ra’s entire left arm is missing, replaced by a writhing mass of Setrákus Ra’s black ooze, thick and oily, shaped like a dead tree. The three tendrils spearing me, they emanate right from her. I try to pry them out of my body with my bare hands, but the ooze hardens at my touch, becomes razor sharp, and I only succeed in cutting my palms.
I try to shove her away with my telekinesis. It doesn’t work.
Nothing works.
As I struggle, I see sparks of Loric energy pulsing out of me, traveling up my connection to Phiri Dun-Ra and guttering out inside her arm. Her eyes roll back in her head for a moment. Then she holds out her normal arm, palm up.
Phiri Dun-Ra’s hand glows. A ball of fire rises up from her palm, the flames tinged with purple.
“Oh, this is nice, John Smith,” she says. “I could get used to it.”
More Mogs begin to emerge from the trees around Patience Creek. I don’t know how I missed them, there’s so many. But then I see one step out of a shadow—literally step out from where there was nothing before—and I realize that they’re teleporting in somehow.
Setrákus Ra has succeeded. Some of these Mogs, like Phiri Dun-Ra, have Legacies. No—I won’t call them that. They’re sick.
What word did Setrákus Ra use? “Augmentations.” That’s what these twisted powers are.
An older trueborn, bald and impossibly thin, comes to stand next to Phiri Dun-Ra. His eyes are completely glazed black. He ignores me, staring instead at Mark. The Thin Mog curls a finger in Mark’s direction, and I’m vaguely aware of a sound like locusts moving through leaves.