[Lorien Legacies 06.0] The Fate of Ten

by Pittacus Lore

  I chuckle dryly, not really feeling in the mood. “Yeah. Hilarious.”

  I realize that Daniela’s trying to comfort me in her caustic way. I’ll never know what would have happened if we’d spent the last few months trying to make our war with the Mogadorians public. There were humans at high levels involved with MogPro that would’ve made any attempt at exposing the Mogs extremely difficult, if not impossible. I know all this, logically. And yet I can’t help feeling that yesterday’s colossal loss of life is on me. I should’ve done more.

  “How old are you, anyway?” Daniela asks.

  “Sixteen,” I tell her.

  “Yeah.” Daniela nods, like she already knew this. “You’re like the girl that narrates the video. You got that whole wise-beyond-your-years thing going, that’s true. And you look like you’ve been through some shit. But take a closer look . . .” She trails off, clicking her tongue in thought. “You should be finishing high school, man. Not saving the world.”

  I can’t let what happened in New York bury me under guilt. I need to make sure nothing like it ever happens again. I need to find my friends and figure out a way to kill Setrákus Ra, once and for all.

  I square my shoulders and smile at Daniela, affecting a nonchalant shrug. “Somebody’s gotta do it.”

  Daniela smiles back for a second, then catches herself and looks away. For a second there, I thought she might volunteer to join the fight. I can’t make her stick with us after we get out of the subway. I just have to trust that she, and the other humans out there, have developed their Legacies for a reason.

  “We need to get moving,” I say.

  I shake Sam’s shoulder and he snorts awake. His eyes are bleary for a moment, adjusting slowly to the bluish LCD lighting of the subway car.

  “So it wasn’t a bad dream,” he sighs, standing up slowly and stretching out his back. His gaze drifts over to Daniela. “You decided to hang around, huh?”

  Daniela shrugs, like the question embarrasses her. “You mentioned getting some people out of New York . . . ,” she says to me.

  “Yeah. The army and the police have secured the Brooklyn Bridge. They’re evacuating people from there. At least, they were last night.”

  “I’d like to go there,” Daniela replies, standing up. She straightens her dust-covered and blood-spattered T-shirt. “Maybe see if my mom made it.”

  “All right,” I say. I don’t want to push her on joining forces. If it’s going to happen, she’s the one who has to make the decision. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t stick together for the time being. “We should head that way too.”

  Sam rubs his eyes, still working moisture into his mouth. “You think Nine and Five battled their way to the evacuation point?”

  “Doubt it,” I reply. “But Nine’s a big boy, he can handle himself for a little longer. Priorities have changed. I really need to get in touch with Six. If anywhere has working phones, I think it’ll be the evacuation point.” I turn to Daniela. “Can you lead us out of here?”

  Daniela nods. “Only one way to go with the uptown tracks caved in. We follow the tracks for a few more stops, we should just about make it to the bridge.”

  “Wait. How did priorities change while we were sleeping down here?” Sam asks.

  I tell Sam how Ella reached out to me telepathically from her prison aboard the Anubis, explaining that Setrákus Ra is headed for the Sanctuary. Daniela listens in, her eyes wide and locked on me, mouth slightly opened. When I’m finished describing the dreamscape, prophecies and endangered Lorien historical sites, she shakes her head in total mystification.

  “My life has gotten so effing weird,” she says, walking down the train car towards the exit.

  “Hey,” Sam calls after her. “You forgot your bag!”

  Daniela glances over her shoulder. Then, she looks at me. I don’t know if she wants permission or if she’s challenging me to stop her. When I don’t say anything, she doubles back and lifts the heavy bag with a grunt.

  “Use your telekinesis,” I say casually. “It’s good practice.”

  Daniela eyes me for a moment, then nods and grins. She concentrates and floats the bag out in front of her.

  “What’s in there, anyway?” Sam asks.

  “My college fund,” she replies.

  Sam gives me a look. I just shrug.

  When Daniela reaches the end of the car, she levitates the bag aside and yanks the metal door open with a sharp clatter. She steps onto the gangway that connects to the next car. Sam and I follow a few feet behind her.

  “Whoa, whoa,” Daniela says, her words not directed to us. Her duffel bag rockets back into our subway car, Sam and I both having to jump out of the way. Daniela telekinetically slides the bag under a bench, like she’s trying to hide it. A second later, she steps backwards through the door, her hands raised in surrender. Immediately, my muscles tense. I thought we were safe down here in the tunnels.

  But we aren’t alone.

  A machine-gun barrel with a flashlight attachment is leveled inches from Daniela’s face. A shadowy form, covered in bulky equipment and body armor, inches cautiously into our train car, backing Daniela down. Too late, I notice flashlight beams in the next car over—at least a dozen of them, maybe more. A second halogen beam shines right into my eyes, a second gunman boarding our car. Without thinking about it, I ignite my Lumen, fire slithering across my fists.

  “Wait,” Sam warns. “They aren’t Mogs.”

  I hear the telltale click of a round being chambered, probably in response to my channeling a fireball. The subway car aisle is narrow, Daniela is in the way and the light in my face makes it difficult to see. Definitely not ideal conditions. I could probably disarm them with my telekinesis, but I don’t want to risk them getting off a burst of automatic fire at such close quarters. Better to wait and see how this plays out.

  I let my Lumen wink out, and at the same time the soldier in front lowers his flashlight beam out of my face, pointing his gun at the floor. He’s wearing a helmet, fatigues and night-vision goggles. Despite all that, I can tell he’s only a few years older than me.

  “You’re him,” the soldier says, a bit of awe in his voice. “John Smith.”

  I’m still not used to this whole being-recognized thing, so it takes me a moment to answer. “That’s right.”

  The soldier snaps a walkie-talkie off his belt and speaks into it. “We’ve got him,” he says, not taking his eyes off me.

  Daniela edges towards Sam and me, glancing between us and the soldiers, more of whom are now filtering into our train car, fanning out, making the whole area even tighter. “Friends of yours?”

  “Not sure,” I reply quietly.

  “Sometimes the government likes us, other times not so much,” Sam explains.

  “Great,” Daniela replies. “For a second there, I thought they were here to arrest me.”

  The soldier’s walkie-talkie crackles to life, a familiar woman’s voice filling the train car. “Ask them nicely, but bring them in,” the woman commands.

  The soldier clears his throat uncomfortably, staring at us.

  “Please come with us,” he says. “Agent Walker would like a word.”

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  THE SOLDIERS RUSH US THROUGH THE SUBWAY tunnels, out through the nearest station and finally into daylight. They’re constantly in a tight knot around us, a human shield, treating us like the Secret Service does the president. I let myself be hustled along, knowing that I can easily shove through them at the first sign of trouble. We don’t encounter any Mogadorian patrols on the way back to their armored Humvees, and pretty soon we’re rumbling through streets filled with broken chunks of building, the wreckage the result of last night’s Anubis bombardment.

  We reach the Brooklyn Bridge quickly and without incident. On the Manhattan side, the army has set up a heavily armed checkpoint—soldiers packing mounted machine guns watch the streets from behind a blockade of sandbags. Behind them, three rows of t
anks are parked six across on the bridge, their turrets armed with surface-to-air missiles and aimed at the sky. Helicopters laden with more missiles patrol the skies and some muscular-looking boats sit ready in the river. If the Mogadorians try to push into Brooklyn, they’ll definitely encounter some resistance.

  “Have you had to fight many off?” I ask the soldier driving our Humvee as we’re waved through the security checkpoint and begin slowly weaving through the choke points on the bridge.

  “None whatsoever, sir,” he replies. “The hostiles have stuck to Manhattan so far. That big ship flew right over us this morning and didn’t engage. You ask me, they don’t want a piece of us army boys.”

  “Sir,” Daniela repeats, raising an eyebrow at me and snickering.

  “They’re holding Manhattan,” I say, leaning back and frowning, not understanding why the Mogs haven’t pressed their attack.

  “It’s like Setrákus Ra is sending a message,” Sam says quietly. “Look at what I can do.”

  “If they come at us, we’ll be ready,” the soldier says, overhearing. Looking out the window, I make out snipers hidden among the bridge’s high struts, watching the Manhattan side of the bridge through their scopes.

  I exchange a doubtful look with Sam. I want to believe in this show of force by the army and echo the soldier’s confidence, but I’ve seen what kind of destruction the Mogs are capable of. The only reason this Brooklyn camp is still standing is because Setrákus Ra allowed it.

  The soldier parks our Humvee in the middle of a city block that’s been converted into a staging area for the military. There are tents nearby, more Humvees and a lot of anxious-looking soldiers with guns. There’s also a long line of civilians, many of them filthy and superficially injured, clutching their scant possessions as they wait in a haggard line. At the front of the line, some Red Cross volunteers with clipboards take down the exhausted people’s information before waving them onto commandeered city buses.

  Our escort notices me watching the slow procession of refugees. “Red Cross is trying to keep track of the displaced,” the soldier explains. “Then we’re evacuating them to Long Island, New Jersey, wherever. Getting them away from the fighting until we can retake New York.”

  The soldier sizes up Sam and Daniela, then looks at me again. It suddenly occurs to me that this guy is looking to me for orders.

  “Do you want these two evacuated?” the soldier asks, referring to my companions.

  “They’re with me,” I tell him, and he nods, accepting that without further question.

  Daniela watches the aid workers check in an elderly couple and help them onto a bus. “They have a list or something I could check? I’m . . . looking for someone.”

  The soldier shrugs like this isn’t his area of expertise. “Sure. You could ask.”

  Daniela turns to me. “I’m gonna—”

  “Go,” I say, nodding. “I hope you find her.”

  Daniela smiles at Sam, then me, and starts to turn away. “Um, about that whole saving-the-world thing,” she says, hesitating.

  “When you’re ready, come find me,” I tell her.

  “You’re assuming I’ll ever be ready,” Daniela replies. She hasn’t mentioned her duffel bag of stolen money since it got left behind on the subway.

  “Yeah. I am.”

  Daniela lingers for a second longer, eyes locked with mine. Then, nodding to herself, she turns and jogs over to hassle the Red Cross. Sam looks at me like I’m crazy.

  “You’re just letting her go? One of the only . . .” Sam glances at the soldier who’s still patiently standing nearby, not sure how much he should say.

  “I can’t force her to join us, Sam,” I reply. “But what happened to her—what happened to you . . . there has to be a reason. I have faith it won’t be for nothing.”

  “Agent Walker is this way, sir,” the soldier says, motioning Sam and me to follow.

  “Are cell phones working yet?” I ask him as we walk through the busy camp. “I need to make a call. It’s important.”

  “Traditional methods are still down, sir. The hostiles saw to that. We’ve probably got something you can use in the communications center, though,” the soldier says, gesturing to a nearby tent bustling with activity. “I’m supposed to bring you directly to Agent Walker, though. If you’ll allow it.”

  “If I’ll allow it?”

  “We were briefed on your history of . . . difficulty with authority,” the soldier says, sheepishly examining the handle of his rifle. “We were told not to engage in combat or force you to do anything. Mission parameters are limited to, uh, gently prodding.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. It wasn’t too long ago that I was considered an enemy of the state. Now, I’m being treated like a foreign dignitary by the army.

  “All right,” I say, deciding not to make life difficult for our escort. “Point me in the direction of Agent Walker and then help my friend Sam get his hands on a satellite phone.”

  Moments later, I walk along the concrete pier overlooking the East River and Manhattan. The air is crisp and cool, although still tinged with the acrid, burned smell that blows in from Manhattan. From here, I have a clear view of the destruction the Mogadorians wreaked on the city. Pillars of dark smoke rise into the bright blue sky, fires still burning. There are gaps in the city’s skyline, spaces where I know buildings should be, simply erased by the powerful energy weapons of the Anubis. Occasionally, I can make out a Skimmer zipping between buildings, the Mogs patrolling the streets.

  Agent Walker stands alone at the railing, staring out at the city.

  “How’d you find me?” I ask by way of greeting as I approach.

  The FBI agent who once tried to have me imprisoned actually smiles at me.

  “Some survivors trickling in mentioned seeing you,” Walker answers. “We sent teams out to the general area. Figured we’d start looking where the alpha warship was dropping heavy ordnance.”

  “Good call,” I reply.

  “Glad you’re alive,” she says brusquely.

  Walker’s gray-streaked red hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail. She looks exhausted, heavy bags under both of her eyes. At some point she traded in her customary FBI Windbreaker and pantsuit for a Kevlar vest and fatigues, probably borrowed from the large army contingent securing this area. Her left arm is in a sling, and there’s a hastily bandaged gash on her forehead.

  “Do you want me to heal those?” I ask.

  In response, Walker takes a look around. The two of us are alone for the moment, standing in the small park tucked under the Brooklyn Bridge. Or rather, alone as one can get in what’s basically become a refugee camp overnight. The hilly lawn behind us is cluttered with makeshift tents, wounded and frightened New Yorkers packed in tight. I guess these are the people who refused to be evacuated by the Red Cross, or else are too injured to make the trip. The tents spread out into the surrounding blocks, and I’m sure there are people squatting in the fancy riverfront apartment buildings nearby. Interspersed throughout the survivors, keeping order and tending to the wounded, are soldiers, cops and a few medics, just a small part of the force of thousands I saw gathered closer to the bridge. It’s essentially organized chaos.

  “Those powers of yours have limits?” Walker asks, watching as a woman sprawled in the park’s grass has her severely burned arm treated by a harried doctor.

  “Yeah. I hit them pretty hard yesterday,” I reply, rubbing the back of my neck. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because much as I appreciate the offer, we’ve got thousands of injured here, John, with more trickling in every hour. You want to spend your whole day patching people up?”

  I stare out over the rows of people in the park, many of them resting on nothing more than grass. A lot of them are watching me. I’m still not comfortable with this, being the face of the Garde. I turn back to Walker.

  “I could,” I say. “It would save some lives.”

  Walker shakes her head and gives me a level l
ook. “The badly injured are in the triage tent. We can stop by later if you want to do the whole Mother Teresa thing. But you and I both know there are better ways to be spending your time.”

  I don’t reply, but I don’t press the issue any further. Walker grunts and walks along the pier, heading towards a collection of army tents set up in a nearby plaza. I take another quick look around the park. Crossing over the bridge, things looked pretty secure. Back here, though, it’s absolute madness. Injured people, soldiers, military officials—I don’t even know where to begin. I might be in over my head.

  “So, you’re in charge here?” I ask Walker, attempting to get my bearings.

  She snorts. “You’re kidding, right? There are five-star generals on the scene planning counteroperations. The CIA and the NSA are here, coordinating with people in Washington, trying to make sense of the intel that’s coming in from around the world. They had the president on video conference earlier this afternoon from whatever bunker the Secret Service spirited him off to. I’m just an FBI agent, very much not in charge.”

  “Okay, if that’s the case, why did they bring me to you, Walker? Why are we talking?”

  Walker stops and turns to me, her hands on her hips. “Because of our history, our relationship—”

  “That’s what you’re calling it?”

  “I’ve been named your liaison, John. Your point of contact. Anything you can tell us about the Mogadorians, their tactics, this invasion—that goes through me. Likewise for any requests you might have of the U.S. armed forces.”

  I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. I wonder where the generals are set up. I scan the nearby tents, looking for one that appears more important than the others.

  “No offense, Walker, but I don’t need you as a go-between.”

  “Not up to you,” she replies, resuming her walk along the pier. “You have to understand that the people in charge, the president, his generals, what’s left of his cabinet—they weren’t MogPro people. When the Mogs made contact, we almost had a glorified coup on our hands with the MogPro scum advocating surrender. Luckily, with Sanderson out of the picture—”