Richards puts a hand on my shoulder and pulls me back, but the president beckons me forward.
“Malcolm Goode, isn’t it?” the general asks, drawing out each syllable. “Welcome. You know, I did some research into you when I heard the president sent for you. Seems that many of your theories and ideas were discredited by your colleagues back when you were a professor. In fact, they cost you your job, didn’t they? Before you were abducted by aliens.” He pauses. I know why. Even when proof of extraterrestrial life is falling out of the sky around us, saying you were abducted still sounds crazy to most people. He goes on. “How are we supposed to be sure that you’re not just a nut job who’s going to tell us next that Bigfoot runs the illuminati?”
“With all due respect, General,” I say, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks—a mixture of anger and embarrassment, “I know more about what’s happening around the world right now than anyone else in this room.”
“If the Mogadorians did have you all those years, couldn’t you be a spy?”
Richards speaks up from behind me. “Major Briggs reports that the hostiles did try very hard to kill him.”
“Not hard enough, I see,” Lawson says with a hint of a smile.
“All right, General, that’s enough,” Jackson says. “Dr. Goode, I understand that it wasn’t easy for you to get here. Thank you for coming. I’ve been briefed on your work regarding intergalactic communication and found it quite interesting. Brilliant even, though I admit some of it was difficult to wrap my head around. What can you tell us about what’s going on?”
I take a deep breath.
“Well . . . this has all been in motion for over a decade. Longer, actually. And that’s just taking Earth’s role into account.”
I tell them everything—or at least the highlights—as quickly as I can. My imprisonment. Paradise. Chicago. The Mog encampment in West Virginia. There’s no use in hiding anything now. A few of the people at the table snicker or roll their eyes when I tell them about the piken or the powers that the Garde have. Even though they’ve seen John in action on TV, trying to describe Six’s ability to create storms seems like a stretch. But they fall silent when I start talking about how we discovered that the Mogs and the government were working together. Through it all, the president and Lawson both stare at me, not betraying a single emotion.
“And now I’m here,” I say finally.
The room is deathly silent for a few seconds. I almost regret not bringing Gamera with me. It’d make a hell of an ending to toss him onto the table and watch everyone’s mouths drop open in shock as he morphed. Of course, it’s likely this might be interpreted as an attack on the president, which would probably end with both me and Gamera dead.
“We’ll need to retake the base in Dulce,” Jackson finally says. “I want to know what the hell happened there and why we didn’t know about it. See if we can track down this FBI squad that was combing the archives in Ashwood too. Offer them whatever they need to protect the information they gathered from the Mog base and find out if they have any leads on how to take down those warship shields. Maybe there’s something in those archives. And someone figure out where the hell this place in West Virginia is.”
“Mr. President,” Lawson says. “This story is all well and good, but we’re talking about a handful of teenagers up against their entire army. Do you really want to trust a sixteen-year-old boy with the fate of the country?”
One of the aides whispers into the ear of the woman with the severe bun.
“It seems like this John Smith is polling well with the nation. They love him. At least based on this PSA.”
“These kids sound like ticking time bombs at best,” a man at the table sneers. “I for one don’t want to sit in a room with a pubescent kid who could pull my head off with one thought.”
Lawson grins. “I bet our enemies feel the same way.”
“Like it or not,” I say, “the Garde are your best chance at defeating the Mogadorians without launching a full-scale war.”
“If they want to fight, they should be fighting under our command.”
“No offense, General, but the government doesn’t have a great track record when it comes to the Loric.”
“We’re talking about less than a dozen Garde and their allies, right?” Jackson asks. He turns to an aide. “Prepare a video conference with our people in the Brooklyn evacuation zone. I want those Garde found. I want to talk to John Smith. Then we’ll figure out where to go from there.”
One of Jackson’s aides gasps and runs to his side, sliding a tablet in front of him and whispering something I can’t hear. His eyes go wide.
“Mr. President . . . ,” I start.
He raises his hand. “I’ve got military operations to coordinate and a terrified nation to run. I’ll be in touch when we have further questions.”