[Lorien Legacies 06.3] The Lost Files: Hunt for the Garde

by Pittacus Lore

  It’s probably why I don’t realize the person sneaking up on me until it’s too late.

  “Oy!” a voice shouts.

  I turn. There’s a human boy standing ten yards away. His hair is an odd color. Unnatural. Almost white and sticking up on the top of his head.

  I turn my blaster on him. He grins and shakes his finger back and forth. Something flies over his head. A streak of red, pulsing energy. The boy clenches his fingers into a fist and swings it down. Must be using telekinesis. Before I can leap out of the way, the red thing hits the ground behind me just on the other side of the railing. Exploding. Sending me flying through the air along with a shower of smoke, rock, debris.

  I hit the ground and roll, finally coming to a stop with my back against something hard. My head smacks against whatever it is, blurring my vision. There’s a sudden pain in my chest.

  “Thanks,” the boy calls over his shoulder, but all I can make out is a dark-haired figure, much too small to be a Mogadorian, disappearing into the trees. The boy turns his attention to me. “Man, I’ve got to work on my aim. I almost got poor Bertrand caught up in all that. Ran’s bomb was supposed to actually hit you. Still, I bet that bloody hurts, doesn’t it?”

  I look down. There’s a length of metal rod sticking out of the right side of my chest. Part of the railing I’d been standing by. One of my lungs is destroyed, certainly. I must be in shock, though, because I don’t feel much of anything other than a cold tingling in my fingers.

  I look around. Where is Drak? Where are the other troops?

  “Damned humans . . . ,” I spit out. “Weaklings . . .”

  The boy smiles in a way that sets my blood on fire. “Seems to me like these ‘human weaklings’ are taking out all your men. You shoulda brought more aliens with you.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Guess I shoulda guessed you ugly bastards would pick up on our message. Maybe the Loric aren’t far behind.” His face lights up. “Wait, is this some kinda test or something? Because I think we’re acing it, mate.”

  My blaster lies on the ground between us. The boy opens his palm, and the blaster flies into his hand. Over his shoulder, I see one of the other Skimmers going down. There’s something hazy about it. Like it’s been covered in some kind of cloud or swarm. It crashes into the water.

  I try to stand. That’s when I realize the rod has gone completely through me. The back end is embedded in a tree. I twist my body in an attempt to dislodge it. That’s when the pain comes.

  I yell. The boy holds the blaster up, aiming at my face. Based on the angle, it looks like he’ll miss. But if I stay here, he’ll hit me eventually.

  I won’t let this child end me. I have only one option. Maybe I’ll even survive. Maybe the wounds aren’t that bad.

  With every ounce of strength in my body, I lunge forward. There’s a sickening, wet sound as I slide off the metal. I feel a blast of heat shoot by my ear, searing the air. The kid missed.

  But he’s not really my concern now.

  “Oof,” the kid says. “Looks like you’re already dead.”

  I crawl forward on my knees. Dark liquid gushes from the hole in my chest, covering me. Coating the leaves. I look down at my hands. They’re turning gray. A bomb of exclamations goes off in my head.

  You’ve failed! Kill them! It hurts! Don’t let this human beat you!

  And then comes the loudest of all as my fingers start to break apart. Disintegrating.

  Hail our Beloved Leader! Forever may he . . .

  PART THREE

  REXICUS SATURNUS

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  STANDING IN THE CENTER OF THE GREAT GLASS window on our warship’s bridge, I have an unobstructed view of the invasion of Earth.

  It’s surprisingly quiet, as if the humans have already accepted their fate, choosing compliance over opposition. This is good for us. It means that when we actually come down out of our warships and take the planet, we won’t be met with much resistance.

  And yet, despite knowing this, I can’t shake an uncomfortable feeling in the back of my mind. Something almost like guilt.

  I think I might actually feel sorry for the humans.

  They’re fighting back in other places like New York and Beijing, of course, where my people are doing what the Great Book says is our purpose in life. In those cities, our ground troops are seeing action, flexing their trigger fingers, bathing in the blood of those who stand against them while our pilots rain fire from above, destroying any who would oppose Mogadorian Progress. Domination through combat. No one can hope to stop us. The Garde—or the humans who’ve somehow gained powers in the last few days—don’t stand a chance against the vastness of our armies. And neither do their allies. Be they human, Loric or something else. Eventually, all of them will be nothing but dust. Forgotten.

  Just like the rest of us. Except Setrákus Ra, I guess. He’ll rule our people forever if the Great Book is to be believed. Though, he did write that himself, so we only have his word to go off of. Fortunately for him we grow up reading his manifesto, so we never even think to ask if it’s true.

  Most of us.

  With all its talk of war and honor, the Great Book left out how much waiting can be involved in an invasion. In Toronto, where I’m stationed, though, things are fairly calm aside from a few of our patrols keeping watch over the streets below. I’m not in the thick of it. I guess I should consider myself lucky for being assigned to such a quiet location, especially after everything I went through in Dulce and Plum Island. I was given a slight promotion after “capturing” the traitor Adamus. No one knew I’d actually helped him escape, obviously, because I’m still alive. When he broke out and that Plum Island facility was closed down, I had some options as to where to go next. I asked to be reassigned to a warship. Something about being on Earth had started to make me feel uncomfortable. Or maybe too comfortable. I liked it too much.

  I needed to clear my head and try to make sense of everything that had happened.

  Fortunately, as a trueborn, I’d done a lot of training on how warships are run, so after a few crash course refreshers, I ended up as a navigator. The recycled air of the warship has taken some getting used to, but all in all, it could be worse. At least I’ve got a good view. From the windows looking out from the front of the ship’s bridge, I see mostly an expansive lake that seems to go on forever, disappearing on the horizon. It’s nice. I’ve even rotated the warship to get a better view. Just slightly, so none of the other trueborn milling around the bridge notice.

  It’s probably more chaotic in the city itself, where evacuations continue. We allow the people of Earth to run, knowing that eventually—inevitably—they’ll bow before us. The fewer casualties we cause among their population, the more humans we’ll have working for us once we take over completely. They’ll gather resources for us, build shrines in our honor and palaces for our war heroes. Or they’ll die. That’s the Mogadorian way. Or that’s Beloved Leader’s way, and therefore ours.

  I wonder where those who are running are going, where they think they can escape to. I’ve crossed the country below, hitchhiking and hopping trains. I’ve spent time among the humans. They’re a resilient species, if a bit lacking in technological advances. But they’re severely outgunned. They must realize that after the destruction of New York, which, from what I understand, is—was—one of their most splendid cities.

  I almost want to help them.

  I shake my head, trying to get rid of such thoughts. I focus on the water, letting my fingers connect the dots of stars reflected off of the lake below. Trying to think of nothing at all.

  Eventually there’s a hiss of pressurized air behind me as one of the doors to the bridge slides open.

  “I want status updates from every department,” a voice barks, snapping me back to reality.

  I recognize immediately that it’s Captain Jax-Har and turn, posture rigid at attention. Medals decorate both sides of his uniform. A sheen of sweat on his head causes his complicated skull tat
toos to shine under the lights. Two other trueborn follow after him: our communications officer, Denbar, and Mirra, one of the few trueborn females in our military. All their faces are blank but look somehow paler than usual. I wonder where they’re coming from within the ship and what they’ve been talking about. Even though I’m a trueborn officer, I still lack top-level security clearance. Plenty of meetings take place without me being present. The fact that I’m kept in the dark is the captain’s decision. I understand his hesitation to include me since I’ve only recently been assigned to his crew. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that when Jax-Har looks at me, he knows the truth, somehow, someway. That I helped Adamus. That I killed our own people. That I betrayed Beloved Leader.

  I remind myself for the thousandth time that if anyone really did think this, I’d be executed without hesitation. But the paranoia remains. Maybe because I myself have trouble understanding my past actions and why I helped Adamus when I could have easily left him locked up on Plum Island. Why I betrayed my people just to help an enemy (even if at moments during our time together, we felt like something else, like friends).

  Or maybe it’s just that spending so many days with Adamus awakened something in me. A series of questions I consciously try not to ask, a secret I keep locked away in the darkest part of my head that surfaces every night when I’m alone, half asleep, guard down.

  Because of Adamus, I have doubts about the Mogadorian cause.

  “Officer Saturnus!” The captain steps over to me. I bow slightly in acknowledgment, and then we stand facing one another at the center of the window. I’m bigger and stronger than most Mogadorian troops—even many trueborn—but Jax-Har towers over me.

  “How long would it take us to reach Beloved Leader’s base of operations?” he asks.

  “One moment, sir,” I say, walking back to my terminal, where I tap on a keyboard and bring various figures up on the screen. “We could be at the West Virginia base in approximately two hours.”

  Jax-Har nods but doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, looking over my shoulder at nothing. A few seconds pass in silence.

  “Shall I . . . plot a course?” I ask.

  His eyes snap into focus as he scowls at me.

  “Did I give you that order?” he spits.

  “No, sir,” I mutter.

  He turns away, shouting at Denbar, who stands in front of a large computer terminal on the other side of the bridge.

  “Get me an open channel broadcasting to the Anubis and the base in West Virginia.”

  Denbar does so. When Jax-Har speaks again, his voice booms, filling the room.

  “This is Captain Jax-Har of Warship Delta, currently stationed above the Canadian city of Toronto.” He pauses momentarily, brow furrowing for a few seconds before continuing. “We are awaiting orders and requesting guidance from Beloved Leader so that we may forge ahead and ensure Mogadorian Progress. Please advise.”

  Something about this is odd. I listen to his words and try to piece together why he seems so flustered—almost nervous. He’s been doing stuff like this all day, sometimes asking about the whereabouts of a supposed Loric ship, other times contacting West Virginia just to “check in.” Then I realize why this seems so odd: he’s actually asking for commands. Either he’s gotten bored waiting for action and is succumbing to some sort of bloodlust or . . .

  Has something happened in the fleet that I don’t know about? When was the last time we did get an order from Setrákus Ra?

  What is Beloved Leader doing now?

  The captain motions to Denbar, who cuts off the line.

  “Alert me immediately if we receive a response,” Jax-Har says. He takes a few steps towards his captain’s chair before stopping, looking at me over his shoulder. “And, Officer Saturnus, if I find you away from your terminal during one of your shifts again, I’ll have your feet nailed to the floor in front of it. We’re not here on a sightseeing mission.”

  “Sir,” I say again.

  “Captain!” Denbar rushes to him, holding out an electronic pad. “We’ve received a message from our people in the American capital. Level-one clearance.”

  In a few long steps, Jax-Har crosses the bridge, swiping the tablet from his subordinate’s hand. His face flashes with concern for only a moment.

  “Come with me,” he says, motioning to the officer.

  Mirra, who’s been busying herself reading ship diagnostics, steps forward.

  “Captain, shall I—,” she starts.

  “Stay here,” Jax-Har says. “Make sure the rest of the crew is in order.”

  Denbar winks at her. Jax-Har glances at me again, and then the two men are gone, out the doorway.

  Frustration flashes on Mirra’s face. There’s a ruthlessness and cunning behind her eyes that I’ve only ever seen from our most feared warriors, which is kind of terrifying since, of everyone on the ship, she’s perhaps the only person I’m friendly with. We both grew up in Ashwood Estates. She’s several years older than me, though, so I don’t have much memory of her. Now, she’s Jax-Har’s second-in-command. Or she’s supposed to be, at least. I get the feeling that Denbar’s trying to take that position away from her, which is probably why they always seem to be at each other’s throats.

  I start over to her, hoping that whatever annoyance she’s feeling will make her more willing to tell me what’s got the captain so upset. Then I remember Jax-Har’s words and pause, standing awkwardly in the middle of the bridge for a moment before taking a few steps back.

  Mirra notices, and stomps over to me.

  “Is there a problem, Saturnus?” she asks.

  “You know, you can call me Rexicus,” I say. “Actually, back home and at the Dulce base, most people called me Rex.”

  “I’m aware.”

  Perhaps “friendly” isn’t the best way to describe my relationship with Mirra. It might be more accurate to say that I sometimes try to strike up conversations with her about growing up on Earth, and so far she hasn’t shoved a sword through my stomach.

  I try to soften her up.

  “Did you see the moon reflecting off the water?” I ask. “It reminds me of that park a couple miles south of Ashwood. Did you ever go there?”

  “Is this why it looked like you were about to defy the captain’s order and step away from your station just now? To reminisce about an orbiting satellite as seen in a man-made pond? You’re not a child, Saturnus.”

  She knows about the pond.

  “So you have been to the park.”

  Mirra turns her back to me and starts to walk away.

  “Wait,” I say, a little too loudly. I glance around, but the handful of other trueborn officers around are minding their own business. Or at least pretending to.

  She faces me again, the brow over one dark eye raised in annoyance.

  “Are things . . . okay?” I ask as quietly as I can. “Normal? With the ship and everything that’s going on? With the invasion? Things just seem . . . tense.”

  “What do you mean?” Her face may as well be made of stone. She betrays no hint of emotion. “Everything is going exactly as Beloved Leader expected it would. His word is prophecy and truth.”

  This is one of the problems with Mogadorians. Or at least with those who have no doubts about Setrákus Ra’s plans.

  So, like, 99.99 percent of my people.

  “Well, it’s just that I’ve never seen a captain ask for orders before. We wait until we’re told what to do. That’s our job. And I’ve been on the bridge for most of the last twelve hours. We haven’t received any transmissions from the Anubis or West Virginia.”

  “High command is no doubt busy with more important things at this time.”

  “When was the last time we got orders?” I ask.

  She opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. Instead, she just looks at me for a few seconds, searching my face.

  “You’d have to ask Denbar,” she says flatly.

  I try to reframe my question.


  “What would you do if you were captain?”

  “I wouldn’t bother Beloved Leader like some pestering—,” she says, and then stops. Her eyes narrow.

  I grin. I’ve caught her.

  “Officer Saturnus,” she says, loud enough for everyone else on the bridge to hear. “Your shift must be over soon if you’ve been on the bridge for twelve hours. I’m sure you’re exhausted. Before you leave, though, I want you to run possible flight patterns to every second-tier city target in North America. Double-check your numbers. Triple-check them. We need to be prepared for when our next orders come in.”

  She smirks and then turns away and heads back to the main controls.

  Great.

  I glance around, but no one makes eye contact with me. Most of the people on the bridge were born on Mogadore, or on ships. There’s a noticeable brutality to them, an economy in their speech. They say only what they have to, when spoken to. They don’t pretend to care about camaraderie. And above all else, they obey, without question.

  But I grew up on Earth. So did Mirra. Even if we were in Mogadorian homes, they were designed to look like human communities. We sneaked human entertainment and learned how the species functioned so that we could better understand them—could conquer them more easily. Some of that must have rubbed off on us. I wouldn’t say that it’s been difficult adjusting to life on a ship, surrounded by a bunch of uptight Mogs. But it’s different. Especially after spending so much time on Earth. Sometimes I miss just talking. Or having someone to talk to.

  Underneath that hard exterior, maybe Mirra feels the same way.

  One thing’s for certain: it’s obvious something’s got our captain spooked. Still, I have to be careful. Questions are a dangerous thing up here. Ask the wrong one and you’re dead.

  Or you’re labeled a traitor.

  I start looking at the routes Mirra mentioned. There are so many cities left. A whole world out there to conquer. And yet, I can’t shake the idea that despite what the Great Book says—that progress can only be made through war, death and bloodshed—there might be another way. After living so much of my life among the humans, I can’t help but hope that it doesn’t become another Lorien. Or another Mogadore, a place I’ve never even been.