“Six did this . . . ,” Sam says.
“They went down there to find Lorien on Earth; I think they did it. And then, maybe Lorien chose you.”
Without even realizing it, I’ve already devoured the sandwich and applesauce. My stomach growls. I feel a little better, my strength starting to come back to me.
“Well, that’s an honor,” Sam says, looking down at his hands and thinking it over. Or, more likely, thinking about Six. “A terrifying honor.”
“You did good out there. I couldn’t have saved all those people without you,” I reply, patting Sam on the back. “The truth is, I don’t know what the hell is going on. I don’t know how or why you suddenly developed a Legacy. I’m just glad you have it. I’m glad there’s a little hope mixed into the death and destruction.”
Sam stands up, pointlessly brushing some crumbs off his dirt-caked jeans. “Yeah, that’s me, the great hope for humanity, currently dying for another sandwich. You want one?”
“I can get it,” I tell Sam, but when I lean forward to get off the futon, I’m immediately woozy and have to sink back down.
“Take it easy,” Sam says, playing it off like he didn’t notice what a mess I am. “I got the sandwiches covered.”
“We’ll just hang here for a few more minutes,” I say groggily. “Then we’ll go track down Nine.”
I close my eyes, listening to Sam clatter around in the kitchen, trying to spread peanut butter with a telekinetically held knife. In the background, always in the background now, I can hear the steady thunder of fighting somewhere else in Manhattan. Sam’s right—we’re the resistance. We should be out there resisting. If I can just rest for a few more minutes . . .
I don’t open my eyes until Sam shakes me by the shoulder. Immediately, I can tell that I’ve dozed off. The light in the room is changed, the streetlights coming on outside, a warm yellow glow under the curtains. A plate stacked with sandwiches waits on the couch next to me. I’m tempted to dive right in and chow down. It’s like all my urges are animal now—sleep, eat, fight.
“How long was I out for?” I ask Sam, sitting up, feeling a little better physically but also feeling guilty for sleeping when there are people dying all over New York.
“About an hour,” Sam replies. “I was going to let you rest, but . . .”
In explanation, Sam gestures behind him, towards the small flat-screen television attached to the room’s far wall. The local news is actually broadcasting. Sam’s got the volume muted and the picture occasionally gives way to bursts of static, but there it is—New York City burning. Grainy footage shows the looming hulk of the Anubis crawling across the skyline, its side-mounted cannons bombarding the uppermost floors of a skyscraper until there’s nothing left but dust.
“I didn’t even think to check if it was working until a few minutes ago,” Sam says. “I figured the Mogs would’ve knocked out the TV stations for, you know, war reasons.”
I haven’t forgotten what Setrákus Ra said to me as I dangled from his ship over the East River. He wants me to watch Earth fall. Thinking even further back, to that vision of Washington, D.C., which I shared with Ella, I remember that city looking pretty busted up, but it wasn’t completely razed. And there were survivors left over to serve Setrákus Ra. I think I’m beginning to understand.
“It’s not an accident,” I say to Sam, thinking out loud. “He must want the humans to be able to see the destruction he’s bringing down. It’s not like on Lorien where his fleet just wiped everyone out. That’s why he tried putting on that big show at the UN, it’s why he tried all that shadowy MogPro shit to bring Earth under his control peacefully. He’s planning to live here afterwards. And if they’re not going to worship him like the Mogs do, he at least wants his human subjects to fear him.”
“Well, the fear thing is definitely working,” Sam replies.
On-screen, the news has switched to a live shot of an anchor at her desk. The building that houses this channel has probably taken some damage from the fighting because it looks like they’re barely keeping themselves on the air. Only half the lights are on in the studio and the camera is cockeyed, the picture not as sharp as it should be. The anchor is trying to keep up a professional face, but her hair is caked with dust and her eyes are red-rimmed from crying. She speaks directly into the camera for a few seconds, introducing the next piece of footage.