I Am Number Four: The Lost Files #14, Page 2

  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.

  Dead. Murdered.

  I swallow down the waffles and coffee that are rising in my throat as Ethan continues to talk. Based on what he says, it sounds like the message is old—from before everything happened in Paradise. Even so, Ethan lets a bombshell slip: he’s been put in charge of training and recruiting Garde Number Five. He’s already had contact with the boy.

  The video ends, and everything comes crashing down on me. Despite all the confusion and gaps in my memories, I know some things to be true. I was in charge of recruiting the Greeters. I must have brought Ethan on board at some point, even if I did kick him out of the group before the Loric arrived. Ethan turned on us and likely molded Five into the traitor he is now.

  And because of that, Eight is dead.

  It’s an easy line to follow, the dots almost connecting themselves and creating a direct link from me to Eight’s corpse. I take my glasses off and squeeze the bridge of my nose, trying to shake the pounding that suddenly fills my head as these memories and realizations flood in. Not only did I give the Mogs knowledge of the Sanctuary, I helped them turn one of the Loric into a Mog sympathizer. Who knows what other terrible things I did while under their control—or that I accidentally set into motion just trying to help the Garde. Will I wake up tomorrow and suddenly discover that I helped plan this invasion too? How do I begin to atone for all this?

  I realize Noto is staring at me. His face is steely, but there’s a hint of concern behind his eyes. Or maybe suspicion.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Just a headache.”

  “Maybe you should take a break,” he suggests. “Get some air.”

  I nod, but make no effort to move.

  “I’m sure none of this can be easy, coming back here,” Noto says. “Walker gave me a quick overview of what happened to you. It’s kind of funny, actually. I investigated your disappearance from Paradise.” He pauses. “Well, I guess ‘funny’ isn’t really the right word.”

  This is something I didn’t expect. He looks far too young to have been involved in the case.

  “You did?” I ask.

  “Not originally, but after the Mog incident at the high school—you know about that, right?”

  “I do.”

  “That’s when our team went to Ohio. I spent some time looking into your old missing person’s case. It was a hell of a puzzle. Like you just vanished off the face of the earth.” He squints a little, staring at me. “You still don’t remember what happened?”

  “Nothing about my abduction,” I say with a sigh. “I’m not sure I’ll ever know what happened. I’ve tried putting everything back together. Strange things will trigger a memory. Mostly just flashes of images and feelings. But even those are difficult to hold on to or understand. There are even missing spots from years before I was taken. Whatever they did broke me. They took so much of my life away.”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  I think of the Greeters again, and of the video I discovered earlier where I’m drugged or brainwashed, being controlled in some way.

  “That’s probably a good thing,” I say. “The Mogadorians did terrible things here—to me and to others. Still, I’d gladly remember every excruciating detail if it meant having all my good memories back as well.”

  “When you put it that way”—he flounders for the right words—“it’s a lot of lost time.”

  I cock my head to one side a bit. Something he said earlier isn’t adding up.

  “Why were you looking into my disappearance? That was so long ago, and with everything that must have been happening after the attack on the school, surely you had more important things to worry about.”

  “Your son was a prime suspect and was missing. We couldn’t rule out the idea that you were working off the grid somewhere with John Smith or the Mogadorians even. If they had only told us they had you. . . .”

  He stops, realizing that he’s digging himself into a hole, reminding me that while I was in a coma a few rooms down, he and the rest of Walker’s agents were working with my captors.

  “We didn’t know.” His eyes meet mine. He sounds earnest, though I can’t tell if he’s trying to convince himself or me. “All the civilian casualties and detainments, the plans for invasion . . . Jesus, we just thought we were getting high-tech weapons and medical enhancements out of helping them find some alien fugitives.”

  Anger bubbles in my stomach as he speaks, not at him but at all of it: the FBI, the Mogs, my imprisonment. I try to push it down and focus on what’s important.

  “Well, we’d better make up for both of our sins. Taking down the Mogs might not absolve us of the things we’ve done under their influence, but it sounds like a pretty good start to me.”

  Noto nods a little. We sit in silence for a few moments before a new question comes to my mind.

  “You were investigating Sam. What did you find?”

  He takes a deep breath, looking a little relieved. “Solid grades. Exceptional aptitude in sciences. An understandable obsession with conspiracy theories and space. I wouldn’t want to poke around the internet history of most teenagers, but Sam spent the majority of his free time researching faraway planets and talking about potential extraterrestrial sightings on message boards. I mean, he also pirated a lot of movies and music, but all in all he seems like a pretty good kid.”

  “I can’t take credit for any of that,” I say, a pang of guilt in my gut.

  Noto shakes his head. “You’re telling me it’s just a coincidence that your son grew up to become an ally to the Loric? Something you did must have rubbed off on him.”

  “Now, if only I can remember what that was,” I say, trying to make a joke of it but failing. “I swear, if Anu and Zakos weren’t dead already, I’d kill them myself.”

  Noto’s face suddenly twists, his brow furrowing. “Who?”

  “Dr. Anu. He was the first Mogadorian doctor who—”

  “No, the other one,” Noto says. He’s not looking at me now but tapping on the keyboard.

  “Zakos,” I mutter. “He . . . After Dr. Anu died he was the one who oversaw my captivity. He was evil. I mean, they both were, but Zakos seemed to take pleasure in his experimentation. A Mogadorian Mengele. He almost killed Adam, from what I understand. But Adam got to him first, when we
escaped.”

  Noto shakes his head.

  “That was in the fall, right? When you escaped?”

  “Yes.” Once I’d carried Adam out of the destroyed tunnels, sneaking away in the chaos and confusion, we crisscrossed the country trying to avoid being recaptured. Weeks flew by in a haze. We spent a lot of time sleeping in fields and living off scraps we found. “By the time I figured enough time had passed and I dared go back to Paradise to reunite with my family, Sam was gone.”

  “Right . . .” Noto’s voice is quiet, distant, like he’s not really listening anymore. His eyes are locked on his screen.

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve got a recording here of Dr. Zakos.” He raises his head and meets my eyes. “It’s from earlier this year. Whatever happened to him here, he survived.”

  “No,” I mutter, coming around to his screen. “That’s not possible. Adam knocked him out, and then the ceiling came down around him when—”

  But he’s there on the screen. In the background his lab is in shambles, the walls cracked and floor covered in rubble. It’s obviously after Adam partially destroyed the sublevel. He looks pleased with himself, black eyes shining in the paused image.

  It takes me a few seconds to comprehend what I’m seeing, but then it hits me in my chest. Dr. Zakos—the butcher, the mad scientist, the monster—is still alive. He’s still fighting against us.

  Somewhere in the darkest parts of my mind, there’s a strange flash. Not joy, exactly, but something like it as I realize I might have the chance to face one of my former captors.

  “It sounds like he’s been called in for some top secret project that Setrákus Ra is overseeing. Something they think will ensure Mogadorian victory.”

  Before I can say anything, though, Noto’s walkie-talkie crackles.

  “Noto, get up here! Something’s happening in New York.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE WARSHIPS HAVE COME. THEY’RE REPORTED first over New York and then cities across the world.

  “This is it,” I murmur to myself. Everything I’ve tried to prevent is happening. The Mogs are here, in full force.

  It’s an invasion.

  Is Sam safe?

  Noto and I gather around several televisions in the house’s media room with at least a dozen Feds to watch shocked newscasters and talking heads try to make sense of what’s happening. Pretty soon the only thing playing is a live feed of the UN press conference. Ella is there. So is Setrákus Ra, in the form of a middle-aged man. He’s saying something about wanting peace. I grind my teeth together.

  Then there’s some sort of commotion, and the camera pans to John, his face a portrait of rage. That’s when everything goes straight to hell.

  Where is Sam?

  I search for a glimpse of my son. But he’s not in the crowds fleeing when John’s hands start to glow with fire, and by the time Ra transforms into a horrifying monster, the camera is pointed only at the people on the stage. When the live feeds cut out, the news stations keep playing the footage, over and over again. Still, I don’t see Sam.

  I try Sam’s phone, but there’s no answer. Of course not. He’s probably there, in the thick of it all, just off camera. My hands start to shake as a feeling of helplessness falls over me. I’m so far away from him. I should have stopped him, demanded that he not go. But it’s too late. What can I do now? Suddenly the idea of going back down into the archives seems foolish, like trying to use a water bottle to put out a forest fire. And so I keep watching the footage on loop.

  At first it’s just the videos on repeat with no commentary, as if the news anchors themselves can’t figure out how to respond. Then it’s a bombardment of theories, warnings and assurances that either the government will handle this or that it’s directly responsible for it.

  Gamera, still in the form of a small black cat, winds between my legs, brushing up against me. His green eyes dart about, ears perked. I wonder briefly how much he understands about what’s going on. Can he feel that our enemy has invaded? That everything is changing?

  Around me, the FBI agents try to deal with what’s happening in their own ways. Most are either dumbfounded, standing slack jawed beside me, or they’re manic, yelling at every busy signal or call that won’t go through on their phones, or shouting into crackling radios, trying to get a handle on the situation. No one’s heard from Walker, and I can tell that several of these agents want to be out in the field.

  I don’t know how many times I watch the footage repeat. Reports start to come in from across the world. Humanity doesn’t know how to react. Chinese forces attack the warship over Beijing, sending planes to drop bombs on it from above. At the same time, trucks shoot missiles from below, the sky erupting in flames. But the warship remains unharmed, protected, apparently, by some sort of invisible shielding. The missiles explode against the force field and then fire and debris rain down on the city. A few of the missiles appear to bounce off the ship completely, obliterating towering buildings, destroying the skyline.

  When the smoke clears, the warship looks untouched, but Beijing is on fire.

  There’s riots and looting in cities across the world. It seems to be happening in places where there aren’t even any warships. I guess when there’s a giant alien craft hovering over your city, you’re less likely to rampage through the streets. People are scared, frightened, some ready to fight, others claiming it’s the end of days. There’s even footage of a group holding welcome banners and signs that say “Beam me up!”

  I try to remember how I reacted when I found irrefutable proof that there was life outside of Earth. When I first met Pittacus Lore. Bursts of images and feelings flash through my mind. Awe. Fear. Validation. Pittacus holds out a white tablet. His eyes burning like fire as he asks for my help.

  A new video starts to play on one of the monitors, taking me out of my thoughts. I recognize Sarah Hart’s voice immediately as she explains who the Garde and Mogadorians are—after spending so much of my life trying to keep the Garde a secret, it’s astounding to hear them spoken of on national television. At first it’s just on one news station, but then all of them are playing it, talking about how it was found on YouTube. They actually interrupt their coverage of the warships to show it, until Sarah’s voice is echoing all around me, coming from every speaker and telling the world about John Smith and the Loric.

  The talking heads try to dissect the footage, bringing up screen caps and stories from They Walk Among Us. I feel like I can’t catch my breath as I look on.

  Everything is happening, all the dominoes falling. I can barely keep up.

  Eventually Agent Noto stands beside me. He doesn’t take his eyes off the screens as he speaks.

  “We can stream the news footage on a laptop downstairs if you want to get back to work.”

  “I’m aware of that,” I say quietly. “But what’s the point? What are we going to find that can fight this?”

  Outside, the sun is beginning to set. My eyes feel like sandpaper. They’re no doubt bloodshot, and the combination of caffeine and the events unfolding on the screen has me practically shaking.

  “Just a suggestion. I can’t seem to look away either.” He lets out a single, breathy laugh. “The world is shitting its pants right now.”

  “And we’re playing house in a goddamned alien suburb,” another agent says, pushing himself between the two of us. “What the hell are we doing here, Noto?”

  “Following Walker’s orders.” Noto’s voice is calm and measured. Only a hint of annoyance shines through.

  “Walker went to New York. She could be dead for all we know.”

  I see Noto glance at me before turning his attention to the other man.

  “This is a highly valuable enemy base. We can’t just—”

  “For fuck’s sake, this isn’t capture the flag.”

  The man is attempting to whisper now but failing. “I can’t get anyone on the line. The Mog loyalists must have shut down communications at the branch offi
ces. Either that or every agent we have is trying to figure out what the hell to do. We’re not far from DC. There are half a dozen assets within a twenty-mile radius more important than protecting a bunch of half-trashed Mogadorian shit. Weapons. Civilians. People who know launch codes. And that’s just off the top of my head. We can’t let all that fall into enemy hands.”

  Despite everything that’s happening—or, maybe, because of the rush of adrenaline and heightened awareness surging through my body—a memory pings in one of the dark spots of my mind.

  The last thing we need is for that to fall into the enemy’s hands.

  I hear the words again and again. I know it’s important, but I can’t remember why. Slowly a scene starts to come to light. I’m on the porch of my home. Sam is with me, but so young and fragile. A woman I don’t know is there, warning me about something. What is it?

  I close my eyes, trying to grab hold of the memory before it’s gone. Maybe this is something that can help us.

  Then I remember. She’s telling me that if she found me then the Mogs will too. That my family isn’t safe. And I’m scared because I know I can’t leave, because the Loric are planning to come back to Paradise one day.

  And so I stayed.

  I swallow down another wave of nausea. For the last few months I’d assumed that the Mogs had taken me by surprise. But they didn’t, not entirely. I knew they could find me. I was warned. But I didn’t listen. What if they’d taken my family? What if they’d taken Sam too? How could I have been so stupid?

  But then, who is the woman I was talking to? She wasn’t a Greeter or one of the Cêpan . . . but I have the feeling she was Loric. Someone I was equally impressed by and afraid of.

  Where is she now?

  “What do you think, Malcolm?” Noto asks, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s talking to me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. My voice is a coarse whisper. “What?”

  That’s when the Chimærae outside start to go nuts.

  Birdlike screeches sound from all around, breaking through the cacophony of news reports and arguments inside. Gamera hisses, jumping into my arms. Noto and I look at each other, and then he follows me as I dart for the front door, shouting something about being careful. A few more agents are already on the lawn, one holding a pair of binoculars up to her eyes. In the distance, some kind of aircraft is approaching.