- Crayton
Zophie’s eyebrows draw together in confusion as she reads the letter over and over again, but I can only think of my conversation with Crayton the night before. How he gave me his key. He knew then that he was leaving, and he didn’t say a word to me about it. Only hugged me. If I had been thinking more clearly, maybe I would have realized what was going on. Instead, I left him in the bar and returned to my room so I could get my eyes back onto my computer screen.
I take the letter from Zophie, find a pack of hotel matches on the desk and then set Crayton’s good-bye on fire.
“What are you doing?” Zophie asks.
“We leave no trail behind,” I say, walking to the bathroom and tossing the burning note into the toilet.
“How could he . . . ?” She keeps shaking her head.
“He’s doing what he thinks is best for her,” I say, all too aware of how my previous conversations with Crayton about Ella’s future may have inspired him to run. “He’s her guardian. It’s his decision.”
“Maybe he didn’t leave that long ago.” Zophie starts for the door. “Maybe we can still catch him.”
“Even if we did catch him,” I say, “what then? We drag him to the other side of this planet against his will?”
She stops and stares at me for a little while, her face falling.
Finally, she whispers: “That bastard left us.”
“Yes,” I say. “But we’re not alone.”
We move on. Zophie buys us plane tickets. Two passports are much cheaper than four. I have them made for us by men who also try to sell me guns, which I decline only because I’ve read enough about airport customs to know I’ll have a difficult time getting them on a plane. Instead, I pack up the weapons from Raylan’s supplies and leave them with the concierge at the front desk of the hotel, along with several large currency notes. When we are more settled in the United States, I’ll phone him and have the Loric weapons shipped to us.
I scour our rooms, making sure we leave nothing behind. And then we say good-bye to Egypt, our first Earth home.
Getting the Chimærae across an ocean is a complicated task, but we manage to figure out ways. They shrink down to tiny lizards and insects, and hide in our pockets and luggage. It’s a little awkward but necessary, and as soon as we’re locked inside the primitive airplane, I’m much more concerned with not falling out of the sky than with the Chimærae in my coat.
The counterfeit passports get us into the new country. We change over our money and rent a big SUV using the fake driver’s license that my passport people created for me as well. We pile in, the Chimærae filling the backseats, and then we’re off.
It takes me a little while to get used to the handling of the SUV and traffic customs in the United States. Drivers in yellow taxis scream at me as I wander in and out of lanes or go far too fast or slow for their liking. But I get the hang of it. Zophie sits in the passenger seat giving me directions from a big map of New York State she has spread out on the dash.
We reach the village of Newton Falls in an area known as the Adirondacks shortly after noon. This is the place where I’ve tracked the forum post to. Tall green trees line streets that occasionally narrow to small wooden bridges crossing thin bodies of running water. Yesterday we were surrounded by desert. The change of scenery might seem drastic if it wasn’t for the fact that not long ago we were on a ship, and before that another planet.
I suggest we find a hotel to stow our things and let the Chimærae out, but Zophie won’t have it.
“We’re here,” she says. “We should find out what the man knows immediately.”
And so we track down the cabin located at the edge of the little town where Eric Bird is supposed to live. There’s a truck in the driveway. We park behind it.
I knock three times before someone finally opens the door, and even then it’s only cracked. I can barely make out the shape of a man’s face through the darkness of the entryway.
“Hi,” I say in my improving English. “I’m looking for—”
“Go away.” The man’s voice is rough and cracked. He tries to close the door, but I put my boot in the way.
“I just have a few questions. Mr. Bird?”
“I have nothing to say.”
The man pushes harder on the door, all but crushing my foot. I’m about to shout and possibly ram the door in when Zophie steps forward.
“Please,” she says, her eyes wide and dewy. “It’s about my brother. He’s missing. You’re our only lead.”
Her voice bleeds with desperation. Eric takes some of his weight off my foot. He lets the door open just enough for the chain lock to catch.
“I don’t know anything,” he says, a little calmer but no less resolutely.
“You posted a photo of a spaceship,” I say. “We’re looking for it.”
Eric crams his head into the space between the door and the doorframe. I can finally see part of his face now. Dark circles sit underneath his bloodshot eyes. He’s got a scraggly red beard and hair that shoots out in every direction, like it hasn’t been washed or combed in days. His skin is sallow.
“I already told him everything I know,” he says. “I saw the ship. I snapped a picture. It looked like it was headed for the mountains, but I didn’t follow it. What more do you want from me?”
“Who?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“You told who everything?” I lean forward a little bit, and he flinches.
“The man who came.” Eric’s lips quiver a little. “He was a giant. His eyes were so black. Like a demon’s.”
My fingers ball into fists at my sides.
“Did he have tattoos on his head?” I ask, thinking about the other big Mogs I’ve seen.
Eric begins to nod, his whole body shaking now.
“How did you know?”
Zophie lets out a small cry beside me as my stomach twists and clenches.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE MOGADORIANS ARE SEARCHING FOR JANUS too. How long have they been on Earth? These monsters that annihilated our planet are several steps ahead of us—is it possible they’ve already tracked down not only Janus, but the Garde and Cêpans too? And if so, why? To what end?
More questions we can’t answer. More knowledge we don’t have.
Zophie is broken. I can tell by the dullness in her eyes. All her hopes had been tied up in finding Janus easily after we came to this country, no matter how blindly optimistic that seemed. Now she looks as though she’s a breath away from bursting into tears. At first I wonder if Crayton had the right idea—if we should be hiding instead of looking for the others. But I tell myself we’ve done the right thing. We have a better idea of what’s happening on Earth now. We have to soldier on. We have to outsmart the Mogadorians and warn the others, keeping faith that they’re still out there somewhere, free.
I do my best to keep us going. The day after we talk to Eric Bird, I find a cabin thirty miles away, in the mountains he said the ship was headed toward. We rent it and set up camp.
I buy more computing equipment and a cheap station wagon for us that I get secondhand from someone in a small town nearby who doesn’t ask for identification or a signature, just hands over the keys. I have the weapons in Egypt shipped to a post office two towns over. The cabin is only a few rooms, already furnished with homemade wood furniture. I set up an office in a spare bedroom, and wire cameras and alarms all around the outside just in case anyone comes snooping around. The Chimærae split their time between keeping guard over the perimeter and nesting in a garage in the backyard. For a while, we wake up early every morning and take them into the mountains, searching for the ship. Zophie makes us stay out longer than we should, until night has fallen and she’s so exhausted she can barely stand.
We have no luck. It starts to get cold. We go back to the world of internet searching that I’m familiar with but that Zophie is still learning. We endure.
After a month in the cabin, I find Zophie in the living room,
huddled over the small laptop I bought her. She spends most of her free time on it, clicking randomly through websites and news articles, trying to find anything that might be related to the Loric. I’ve warned her a million times about being careful, about not sharing any personal information with anyone or mentioning anything related to Lorien directly. She mostly sticks to news sites, so I don’t worry much. Besides, I’ve blocked the computer’s IP address and location.
“Lexa,” she says when I come in. “I have a few articles that look promising. Maybe you can look into them? One is from this guy in Vermont who swears a young girl caused his car to levitate after he yelled at her to get off his lawn. Doesn’t that sound like—”
“Is it from Occult News Daily?” I ask.
“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean—”
“I checked that lead out last night. In the last year the same man has also reported that his town is infested with creatures that survive on the blood of virgins, that a restaurant was serving human meat and that a foreign government was preparing an ancient dragon for warfare. And that’s not even the craziest stuff.”
“Oh,” Zophie says, dejected.
Her eyes go dewy, and I feel terrible. Hard truths always worked when I spoke with Crayton—they were the only kind of advice I felt qualified to give. But I don’t know how to talk to Zophie now that she’s become so fragile. I can empathize, but I don’t know how to fix anything. To fix her. I knew her brother only by name and reputation. To me, he’s the means to an end—a way to get answers to all my questions and figure out what all this was for. Sometimes I forget that to her, he’s everything.
“Sorry,” I say quietly. “I’ll look again. Maybe I can get into the police reports from around the area. It’s worth another go.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Don’t bother. The Mogadorians are tracking this sort of thing too, right? They’ve probably already tortured the man and gotten every ounce of information from him. Or a confession that he made the story up.” She runs her fingers through her hair, pulling it back. “Where are you, Janus? Where are you?”
I stand there awkwardly, not knowing what to do or say. One of the Chimærae has taken the form of a cat and rubs against Zophie’s leg, trying to comfort her. She looks up at me.
“Do you think . . . ,” she begins. “Do you think the Mogs have him?”
“No,” I say. “I’m sure they don’t.”
And she’s desperate enough to believe me, even though she knows I have no evidence.
It pains me to see her like this—so lost and hopeless. If it wasn’t for her, I would have died on Lorien. I would have been killed by the Mogadorians. So I owe her.
I have to find the others. No matter what the cost.
I leave Zophie in the living room and retreat to my office. I’ve been extremely careful when it comes to seeking out information on the internet. I haven’t typed “Lorien” into a search engine for fear this might sound a Mog alarm somewhere—that despite my best efforts and all my digital cloaking they would use something like that to be able to find us. But we can’t keep living like this, waiting for one of the Garde to screw up and get his or her face spread across news sites for using a Legacy in public.
We have nothing to go on. We’re lost, and Zophie needs a reason to hope again. We both do.
So I take a more direct approach to our search.
In a particularly busy forum about alien encounters, I set up an account. My IP address is encrypted. My location signal is bounced across a dozen satellites. I should be untraceable. A ghost.
I bite my lip and stare at the screen, typing a few words. Finally, I hit Submit.
The post goes up, written in our native language:
Where are you?
It’s a long shot, but if for some reason Janus or the other Loric or maybe even the contact Zophie said they were meeting on this planet sees this message, they’ll recognize that there are more of us here. That they’re not alone on this planet. That we’re looking for them.
There’s nothing to do now but wait. I open up my email and find a dozen news stories Zophie has forwarded me. I flit through them, seeing the obvious holes that she’s overlooking, or refusing to acknowledge. Spaceship sightings that don’t really match descriptions of any of Lorien’s ships. The teenage boy who claims to have telekinetic powers but also has an online presence dating back several years, well before Lorien fell.
“Lex!” Zophie yells from the living room. “Check out what I just sent you! I think this could be it!”
I find another message from her in my in-box. Reports from two different media outlets in Montreal about a small gang of men with tattoos on their heads who were allegedly seen chasing a young boy into the woods on the outskirts of the city—though neither the men nor the boy were found.
Now that sounds much more promising. And potentially damning.
I’m about to tell Zophie that she may have just found our first real lead since Eric Bird when my computer beeps again. This time notifying me of a comment on my post in the forum.
The response is written in Loric.
Anonymous: I’m here.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MY FINGERS HOVER OVER THE KEYBOARD, UNSURE of how to proceed. I have to be careful—if the Mogs found Eric Bird, it’s entirely possible they’re watching this forum as well.
I try to be smart when I reply, still using our language:
Who are you?
While I wait for a response, I try to track the user’s data, but it appears to be completely blocked. Or if it’s not, it’s encrypted and hidden well beyond my skills. I hope that means one of the Loric from Janus’s ship happened to be a tech prodigy.
A response comes:
Anonymous: A friend.
You’re from Lorien?
Anonymous: Yes.
Where?
Anonymous: The capital.
When did you come to Earth?
Anonymous: You ask many questions.
I have to be careful.
Anonymous: So do I.
My heart pumps in my chest, threatening to break out. I rack my brain, trying to come up with a way to prove this person is not a threat. The responses are coming quickly now, and I want to keep our interaction going.
I need to know—I have to know—if I’m talking to someone from the other ship.
I focus.
I miss our home. I miss the red Spires of Elkin.
Anonymous: So do I.
The Spires of Elkin were green. Before the Mogs destroyed them.
My cheeks get hot as my pulse pounds. This is not one of the Cêpan or Garde—certainly not Janus. It’s no one who has any real working knowledge of Loric culture.
But someone who knows our language.
I press on, clinging to remote possibilities that this person is a friend. Maybe this is a Loric ambassador, someone we’d planted on this planet long ago. I have to know more.
I’m here on one of the Lore envoys. Are you?
Anonymous: Yes, a Lore envoy.
There’s no such thing.
Have you heard from our home lately? I haven’t got a message in almost two years.
Anonymous: I have new orders, but I cannot share them here. Where are you?
This is a trap.
My mind goes back to the destruction of Eilon Park when the fire rained down. I remember the woman who the Mogs murdered in front of me and all the terrible sights and sounds and smells from that night that I’ve been trying not to think about.
I tap out each word with quiet, seething rage.
Die, Mogadorian trash.
This time I don’t get an immediate response. I just sit staring at the screen for what feels like a very long time, waiting for my breathing to settle down. I assume that our little exchange is over when a new message comes in.
Anonymous: Let’s try this another way.
Before I can formulate a coherent question, a new private message from Anonymous pops up. There’s
a file attached—an MPEG movie.
My hands start shaking with uncertainty, but somehow I manage to calm them. I download the video to a secure folder—one that’s cordoned off from the rest of my hard drive—and run every test I can imagine on it. But it seems clean. No viruses. No backdoor lines of code. A simple video.
I glance over my shoulder. Zophie is still in the living room. I think about calling her in, but being so unsure of what I’m about to see, I think better of it. Instead, I quietly close the door and sit back down, putting on my headphones.
Then I play the video.
The image that appears at first fills me with relief. I can’t help it—seeing Janus after looking for him for so long immediately sparks joy in me. That fades almost instantly as I remember who sent the movie and realize how terrible he looks. There are bruises all around his green eyes. His red hair—the same shade as his sister’s—is shaved off in places, seemingly at random. He’s shirtless, gaunt, and tied down to a chair. There are blue bands around his arms and neck with cords leading out of them to something off camera.
I gape in horror, covering my mouth with one hand, trying not to cry out.
There’s a gravelly voice from offscreen.
“Speak to your kind,” it says in accented Loric.
Janus shudders. Then he starts talking.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is thin and shaking. “I tried to hide our ship. I was in the mountains for a while. I thought I’d been careful. . . .” He stares into the camera. Tears fill his eyes. “They destroyed our planet and when they found me . . . The things they’ve done to me . . . Forgive me, but I couldn’t hold out. I told them everything. Everything I know about the Garde children. I’m so sorry. . . .” Suddenly there’s a fierce look in his eyes. His nostrils flare as he turns to someone off camera and shouts. “By now they’ve scattered to every corner of this world. You’ll never find them! And soon they’ll wield the powers of our Elders and destroy every—”
[Lorien Legacies 05.4] The Lost Files: The Navigator Page 7