[Lorien Legacies 04.95] The Lost Files: Five's Betrayal

by Pittacus Lore

  I wonder if he was right back in the forest clearing with Emma when he’d said I wasn’t ready for all of this. For a moment, I question whether I’m ready for my new place as the right hand of Setrákus Ra.

  But there’s no other way. My best chance of survival is with the Mogs. Ethan knew that, and I know that too. There’s no way the Garde can fight them. A handful of teenagers versus an army—only a fool would choose to be on their side. And to keep in the Mogs’ good graces, I had to kill Ethan. Survival of the fittest.

  So why do I feel like my chest is in a vise?

  The blade on my arm suddenly feels heavy and constrictive. I rip off the sheath and toss it into the Chest, then throw the whole thing into the ground. Ethan’s note goes into my pocket. And then I use my telekinesis to cover everything up, pushing sand into the hole. The act feels so familiar, and then I realize that I’ve buried things using my Legacy before. Back on the island, when Rey died. Pushing everything down just like I am now. And I think of Rey’s final advice. Do whatever it takes to survive.

  It’s strange how similar his words were to Ethan’s. Sure, Rey probably meant that I had to survive for Lorien, but the basic principle is the same.

  I wonder how I got myself into this situation with two dead guardians. I keep telling myself one thing: this isn’t my fault. I was just doing what Ethan would have wanted—to survive by pleasing the Mogs. This is his fault if it’s anyone’s.

  No, not Ethan’s. This is Nine’s fault. And Four’s. If they hadn’t shown up when they did, I could have carried out Nine’s execution as planned, and none of this would have happened. Nine would be dead and Ethan would be alive and Setrákus Ra would be crowning me as his right hand because I’d killed one of the Loric. But the Garde had to ruin it all for me, and now everything’s gone to shit.

  The picture of Nine from my study is so burned into my mind that I can envision it clearly, even as I stand sweating over a newly filled hole in the middle of the Everglades. I focus the anger bubbling up inside me on him. He’ll pay for what he’s forced me to do. Somehow. Someway. The other Garde will hopefully come to their senses, but he won’t. And that’s just fine with me.

  I’ll see him dead.

  I fish around in my pocket and pull out the metal ball bearing Ethan gave me to practice with. A gift. It’s cool in my hand, and I focus on it, trying to turn my brain off as much as I can—to think of anything else in the world other than the fact that I’ve murdered perhaps the only person who was truly looking out for me. As my body takes on the properties of the ball, I start to calm down a little. My skin gets hard. I’m untouchable. There’s something comfortable about turning into steel. Into something cold and unbreakable.

  I don’t have time to wallow. I don’t have time for pity or regret. The next day our plan goes into action.

  It starts with a cornfield.

  I hover above it. Using my telekinetic powers, I flatten the corn into the shape of my Loric symbol, the one that’s engraved on my Chest. I empty two giant gas cans on the pressed-down vegetation. The corn is wet from a recent storm, but that’s perfect—it just means that my symbol will burn alone for a while before it ignites the rest of the damp crop.

  I take a look around. It’s dark out. There’s no one here but me and the corn and the farmhouses that will call this fire in as soon as I light it. I slip my hand into the inside pocket of my black Mog uniform and pull out the letter Ethan left for me, along with the folded-up notes about Nine. I can’t hold on to the letter. Regardless of its content, carrying around a note that Ethan left behind for me would be a sign of weakness, and I’m not supposed to have any of those. I’m stupid for not having gotten rid of it in the Everglades. Besides, the only way to honor Ethan is to live up to his words. And so I use my telekinetic powers to slip the papers into the gasoline-soaked corn.

  Part of me is undeniably sad that Ethan is gone, but I realize that without him around, I have no one to worry about getting hurt. And I promise myself that I won’t let someone be my weakness like he was ever again. I won’t let anyone get too close to me. Why have friends when I can have troops? I don’t need anyone.

  I am fearless.

  From another pocket, I pull out a fancy metal lighter. It sparks and drops through the air, landing beside the notes I’ve left behind. Suddenly I’m hovering above a flaming testament to my greatness. The sign will be impossible to miss.

  I jet through the air and catch up with a ship hovering far above the clouds a few miles away. It’s milky white and perfectly round. A small passageway opens on one side as I approach—my entry point.

  Inside the ship, I allow myself to relax a little. I pop my knuckles and crack my wrists. I think about my hidden blade, buried with my Chest in the Everglades. I was stupid for getting so emotional yesterday. An idiot. But I won’t make that mistake again, unless I want to end up killed. From now on, nothing matters but keeping myself alive, and that means making the Mogs happy.

  There’s a rumble of thunder from outside as I enter the ship’s control bridge. Setrákus Ra stands in front of a giant window flanked by two computer screens that keep refreshing with things written in the Mog alphabet. I’m learning the language, but I’m not nearly good enough to read anything on the screens yet. Our Beloved Leader’s eyes are fixed on the fiery symbol that’s fading away in the distance as the ship shoots through the sky.

  “This is the beginning of the end for the Garde,” he says. His voice is low and steady, and there’s not a glimmer of doubt in it.

  I take my place at his right side.

  “Are you worried at all?” he asks. “That you might not be able to blend in among them?”

  “No,” I say honestly. “I can be an excellent liar when I need to. It’ll be simple. I just won’t tell them anything true. It’ll be like a game I used to play when I was very young. Before the Mogadorians saved me.”

  “I have no doubt that you’ll make an excellent double agent.”

  He smiles and places a hand on my shoulder.

  “They’ll be given the same chance I was, yes?” I ask. “I can try to get a feel for who might have the intelligence to join us.”

  “Of course. You are my right hand, Five. But I have foreseen that another of them will be my left. You will help her come to see reason.”

  Her?

  “What about Nine?” I ask.

  Setrákus Ra grins.

  “I’ll leave that to you when the time comes.”

  A smile spreads across my face. I wonder what the Garde are doing at this exact moment. What Nine is doing. Are they trying to figure out what the Mogs have planned next? Have they realized yet how powerful their enemies are?

  Are you out there looking for me, fellow Loric?

  I turn to my Leader and nod.

  “I’m ready to meet the rest of my kind.”

  Excerpt from The Revenge of Seven

  DON’T MISS BOOK FIVE IN THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING I AM NUMBER FOUR SERIES

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE NIGHTMARE IS OVER. WHEN I OPEN MY EYES, there’s nothing but darkness.

  I’m in a bed, that much I can tell, and it’s not my own. The mattress is enormous, somehow contoured perfectly to my body, and for a moment I wonder if my friends moved me to one of the bigger beds in Nine’s penthouse. I stretch my legs and arms out as far as they’ll go and can’t find the edges. The sheet draped over me is more slippery than soft, almost like a piece of plastic, and it is radiating heat. Not just heat, I realize, but also a steady vibration that soothes my sore muscles.

  How long have I been asleep, and where the heck am I?

  I try to remember what happened to me, but all I can think of is my last vision. It felt like I was in that nightmare for days. I can still smell the burned-rubber stench of Washington, D.C. Smog clouds lingered over the city, a reminder of the battle fought there. Or the battle that will be fought there, if my vision actually comes true.

  The visions. Are they part of a new Lega
cy? None of the others have Legacies that leave them traumatized in the morning. Are they prophecies? Threats sent by Setrákus Ra, like the dreams John and Eight used to have? Are they warnings?

  Whatever they are, I wish they’d stop happening.

  I take a few deep breaths to clean the smell of Washington out of my nostrils, even though I know it’s all in my head. What’s worse than the smell is that I can remember every little detail, right down to the horrified look on John’s face when he saw me on that stage with Setrákus Ra, condemning Six to death. He was stuck in the vision, too, just like I was. I was powerless up there, stuck between Setrákus Ra, self-appointed ruler of Earth, and . . .

  Five. He’s working for the Mogadorians! I have to warn the others. I sit bolt upright and my head swims—too fast, too soon—rust-colored blobs floating through my vision. I blink them away, my eyes feeling gummy, my mouth dry and my throat sore.

  This definitely isn’t the penthouse.

  My movement must trigger some nearby sensor, because the room’s lights slowly grow brighter. They come on gradually, the room eventually bathed in a pale red glow. I look around for the source of the light and discover it pulsing from veins interwoven through the chrome-paneled walls. A chill goes through me at how precise the room looks, how severe, lacking any decoration at all. The heat from the blanket increases, almost as if it wants me to curl back up beneath it. I shove it away.

  This is a Mogadorian place.

  I crawl across the mammoth bed—it’s bigger than an SUV, big enough for a ten-foot-tall Mogadorian dictator to comfortably relax in—until my bare feet dangle over the metal floor. I’m wearing a long gray nightgown embroidered with thorny black vines. I shudder, thinking about them putting me into this gown and leaving me here to rest. They could’ve just killed me, but instead they put me in pajamas? In my vision, I was sitting alongside Setrákus Ra. He called me his heir. What does that even mean? Is that why I’m still alive?

  It doesn’t matter. The simple fact is: I’ve been captured. I know this. Now what am I going to do about it?

  I figure the Mogs must have moved me to one of their bases. Except this room isn’t like the horrific and tiny cells that Nine and Six described from when they were captured. No, this must be the Mogadorians’ twisted idea of hospitality. They’re trying to take care of me.

  Setrákus Ra wants me treated more like a guest than a prisoner. Because, one day, he wants me ruling next to him. Why, I still don’t understand, but right now it’s the only thing keeping me alive.

  Oh no. If I’m here, what happened to the others in Chicago?

  My hands start to shake and tears sting my eyes. I have to get out of here. And I have to do it alone.

  I push down the fear. I push down the lingering visions of a decimated Washington. I push down the worries about my friends. I push it all down. I need to be a blank slate, like I was when we first fought Setrákus Ra in the New Mexico, like I was during my training sessions with the others. It’s easiest for me to be brave when I just don’t think about it. If I act on instinct, I can do this.

  Run, I imagine Crayton saying. Run until they’re too tired to chase you.

  I need something to fight them with. I look around the room for anything I can use as a weapon. Next to the bed is a metallic nightstand, the only other furniture in the room. The Mogs left a glass of water there for me, which I’m not dumb enough to drink even though I’m insanely thirsty. Next to the glass, there’s a dictionarysized book with an oily, snaky-skin cover. The ink on the cover looks singed, the words indented and rough around the edges, as if it were printed with acid for ink.

  The title reads The Great Book of Mogadorian Progress, surprisingly in English. Under it is a series of angular boxes and hash marks that I assume is Mogadorian.

  I pick up the book and open it. Each page is divided in half, English on one side and Mogadorian on the other. I wonder if I’m supposed to read this thing.

  I slam the book closed. The important thing is that it’s heavy and I can swing it. I won’t be turning any Mogadorian guards into ash clouds, but it’s better than nothing.

  I climb down from the bed and walk over to what I think is the door. It’s a rectangular panel cut into the plated wall, but there aren’t any knobs or buttons.

  As I tiptoe closer, wondering how I’m going to open this thing, there’s a mechanical whirring noise from inside the wall. It must be on a motion sensor like the lights, because the door hisses upward as soon as I’m close, disappearing into the ceiling.

  I don’t stop to wonder why I’m not locked down. Clutching the Mogadorian book, I step into a hallway that’s just as cold and metallic as my room.

  “Ah,” says a woman’s voice. “You’re awake.”

  Instead of guards, a Mogadorian woman perches on a stool outside my room, obviously waiting for me. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen a female Mog before, and definitely not one like her. Middle-aged, with wrinkles forming in the pale skin around her eyes, the Mog looks surprisingly unthreatening in a high-necked floor-length dress, like something one of the sisters would wear back at Santa Teresa. Her head is shaved except for two long, black braids at the back of her skull, the rest of her scalp covered by an elaborate tattoo. Instead of being nasty and vicious, like the Mogs I’ve fought before, this one is almost elegant.

  I stop short in front of her, not sure what to do.

  The Mog glances at the book in my hands and smiles.

  “And ready to begin your studies, I see,” she says, standing up. She’s tall, slender and vaguely spiderlike. Standing before me, she dips into an elaborate bow. “Mistress Ella, I shall be your instructor while—”

  As soon as her head comes low enough, I smack her across the face with the book as hard as I can.

  She doesn’t see it coming, which I guess is strange because all the Mogs I’ve encountered have been ready to fight. This one lets out a short grunt and then hits the floor with a fluttering of fabric from her fancy dress.

  I don’t stop to see if I’ve knocked her out or if she’s pulling a blaster from some hidden compartment in that dress. I run, choosing a direction at random and hurtling down the hallway as fast as I can. The metal floor stings my bare feet and my muscles begin to ache, but I ignore all that. I have to get out of here.

  Too bad these secret Mogadorian bases never have any exit signs.

  I turn one corner and then another, sprinting through hallways that are pretty much identical. I keep expecting sirens to start blaring now that I’ve escaped, but they never do. There aren’t any heavy Mogadorian footfalls chasing after me, either.

  Just when I’m starting to get winded and thinking about slowing down, a doorway opens on my right and two Mogadorians step forward. They’re more like the ones I’m used to—burly, dressed in their black combat gear, beady eyes glaring at me. I dart around them, even though neither of them makes any attempt to grab me. In fact, I think I hear one of them laughing.

  What is going on here?

  I can feel the two Mog soldiers watching me run, so I duck down the first hallway that I can. I’m not sure if I’ve been going in circles or what. There isn’t any sunlight or outside noises at all, nothing to indicate that I might be getting closer to an exit. It doesn’t seem like the Mogs even care what I do, like they know I’ve got no chance to get out of here.

  I slow down to catch my breath, cautiously inching down this latest sterile hallway. I’m still clutching the book—my only weapon—and my hand is starting to cramp. I shake it loose and press on.

  Up ahead, a wide archway opens with a hydraulic hiss; it’s different than the other doors, wider, and there are strangely blinking lights on the other side.

  Not blinking lights. Stars.

  As I walk under the archway, the metal-plated ceiling gives way to a glass bubble, the room wide open, almost like a planetarium. Except real. There are various consoles and computers protruding from the floor—maybe this is some kind of control room—but I ignore
them, drawn instead to the dizzying view through the expansive window.

  Darkness. Stars.

  Earth.

  Now I understand why the Mogadorians weren’t chasing me. They know there’s nowhere for me to go.

  I’m in space.

  I get right up to the glass, pressing my hands against it. I can feel the emptiness outside, the endless, ice-cold, airless space between me and that floating blue orb in the distance.

  “Glorious, isn’t it?”

  His booming voice is like a bucket of cold water dumped on me. I spin around and press my back to the glass, feeling like the void behind me might be preferable to facing him.

  Setrákus Ra stands behind one of the control panels, watching me, a hint of a smile on his face. The first thing I notice is that he’s not nearly as huge as he was when we fought him at Dulce Base. Still, Setrákus Ra is tall and imposing, his broad physique clad in a stern black uniform, studded and decorated with an assortment of jagged Mogadorian medals. Three Loric pendants, the ones he took from the dead Garde, hang from around his neck, glowing a subdued cobalt.

  “I see you’ve already taken up my book,” he says, gesturing to my dictionary-sized club. I didn’t realize I was clutching it to my chest. “Although not necessarily in the way I’d hoped. Fortunately, your Proctor wasn’t badly injured. . . .”

  Suddenly, in my hands, the book begins to glow red, just like the piece of debris I picked up back at Dulce Base. I don’t know exactly how I’m doing it, or even what I’m doing.

  “Ah,” Setrákus Ra says, watching with a raised eyebrow. “Very good.”

  “Go to hell!” I scream, and fling the glowing book at him.

  Before it’s even halfway to him, Setrákus Ra raises one huge hand and the book stops in midair. I watch as the glow I’d infused it with slowly fades.