I stretch, my back cracking, and take a seat at one of the metal chairs in front of a computer terminal. This is the little space I’ve made my own over the last day: a computer, a handheld electronic tablet, a notebook, a small duffel bag full of tools and documents that might prove useful and a graveyard of dirty mugs. I put on a pair of headphones and flit through the list of Mog recordings on the screen until I find where I left off. Then I start watching.
Apart from being ruthless warriors, the Mogadorians also seem to be absurdly thorough when it comes to recording themselves, though I’m not sure whether this is strictly for some kind of historical record or is the by-product of a fascist regime wanting to keep track of its many moving parts. I fast-forward through dozens of videos, almost all of which are in the Mogadorian language and useless to me now that Adam is gone. Occasionally I find one in English, but those are mostly communiqués between human MogPro associates that contain either nothing useful or information we already know. I log anything of the slightest interest in my notebook. The whole process is mind-numbing, and at some point my eyes must start to glaze over, because I don’t realize someone else is in the room with me until there’s a hand on my shoulder.
I spin around, almost falling out of my chair as I try to get to my feet.
The man behind me is an FBI agent wearing a black suit. He’s younger than me, maybe thirty, with olive skin, short dark hair, and several days’ worth of stubble. On the stool beside me, Gamera has taken the form of a cat, eyes locked on the agent, ready to pounce and morph. The animal must have realized his usual turtle form might draw unwanted attention from the agents.
The man holds out a hand.
“Agent Noto. Walker”—he hesitates slightly—“insisted that I might be a valuable resource to you.”
I wave my hand towards the feline at my side.
“I’ve already got a bodyguard.” He doesn’t find this funny. I continue. “I’m sure your Bureau skills will be more useful up there instead of watching me sift through alien data files.”
He smirks a little, but it’s hard to tell if it’s out of annoyance or amusement.
“I assure you I’m more than just a gun, Dr. Goode.”
It’s been so long since someone called me “doctor” that the word sounds strange attached to my name. I almost can’t believe there was a time when students and colleagues called me that on a daily basis.
Noto continues.
“In the past I served as a liaison to the Mogadorians. Before we realized what their true intentions were.”
“Ah. So you have a good idea of who we’re dealing with.”
“I can even understand some of their language. Though I admit that I’m probably on the equivalent of a kindergarten level when it comes to reading it.”
Finally, a windfall.
“Please,” I say, shaking his hand. “Call me Malcolm.”
He takes a seat on the other side of the desk and I get him caught up, pointing him towards a set of files to examine. I try to explain that we’re looking for anything useful, even if that’s a vague description. He seems to understand. We work in relative silence for hours, talking only about our findings, comparing notes. It’s fruitless work. I don’t uncover anything particularly helpful, and Noto’s progress is slow. He often spends fifteen minutes on a file before realizing it’s an order for more food supplies or inconsequential reports on traffic around Ashwood.
Eventually I open up a file that causes me to freeze, my heart pounding in my chest. I recognize the face of the human on camera. I can even give him a name, though it takes me a moment to pin it down in my head.
Ethan.
The problem is, I don’t know why I know his face and name.
The file appears to be a video conference between Ethan and a Mogadorian. Based on the tattoos, I’m guessing it’s a high-ranking official. Ethan is reciting a list of names, giving facts about them and their locations. The words trigger something in my memory, illuminating one of the dark places I’d thought long lost. Faces flash through my head of men and women who helped the Loric refugees when they first arrived on Earth. People I recruited.
Greeters.
That’s when I realize who Ethan is. He had been one of them. A Greeter. No, that’s not right. He was going to be one, but I cut him loose before he fulfilled his duty for some reason. He wasn’t there when the Loric landed. There’s something else, just out of reach. I didn’t trust him—but why not?
As I continue watching, I start to understand a little more. He worked with the Mogs. A traitor detailing everything he knew about the Greeters and the Loric, which wasn’t much. Still, it was probably enough to give the Mogs a few leads.
In fact, it sounds like the Mogs already had at least one of the Greeters captured at the time this video was taken thanks to Ethan’s information. I wonder, was it me?
New images shoot through my mind. Some of the same faces as before, only this time they’re pale, broken, bloodied. They’re here, at Ashwood, being shown to me as a threat or a warning that if I don’t tell Dr. Anu—the head scientist at Ashwood—everything he wants to know, I will end up like them.