The Guard, Page 2

  I switch back to English.

  “I know who you are, Malcolm Goode.”

  He starts to shut the door, but my foot is in the way before he can get it closed.

  “Listen,” I say firmly. “I have no intention of hurting you. I’m only looking for information.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, trying to kick my foot out of the way.

  I put my hand on the door, flexing my fingers and pushing back a little. Malcolm must feel the resistance, because his nostrils flare.

  “I just want answers,” I say.

  “I don’t know anything.” His voice is higher now, verging on panic. “If you don’t leave now I’ll call the police.”

  “And tell them what?” I ask. “That I came asking about a Loric Elder? You don’t want something like that getting into the papers. It’d lead the Mogs right to you.”

  Malcolm’s face goes white. He stops pushing so hard against the door.

  “They’re here,” I continue. “The Mogadorians. He told you about them, right? Pittacus must have known what was going to happen to Lorien if he set up things with you in advance. The Mogs are on this planet. They’ve come to Earth. I just want answers.”

  Malcolm looks up at me. He searches my face. I can see him doing calculations in his head, trying to figure out what to do next.

  “How do I know you’re not a—a Mogadorian?” he asks.

  “Malcolm, if you’d ever seen one of those bastards, you’d realize that’s the most insulting question I’ve ever been asked.”

  He nods a little. “From what I’ve heard . . . I can imagine.”

  “I know about the ones who came from Lorien. The nine Garde and their Mentors. I’m a friend. If I wasn’t, I’d have shown up with an army.”

  After a few moments he takes the rest of his weight off the door, opening it just wide enough for me to pass through. While he pokes his head out the front doorway and looks around, I investigate the first few rooms in his house, taking in my surroundings, preparing for anything. Just because this man was chosen by one of the Loric Elders doesn’t mean he’s to be trusted. Not by me, at least—not when I barely have any faith in the Elders themselves. I keep one hand in my coat pocket, ready to draw my weapon at the first sign that Malcolm isn’t going to cooperate.

  But he does. He ushers me into his office. Dark wooden shelves line the walls. They’re filled with books, files and papers all piled on top of each other haphazardly. The stacks spill out onto virtually every surface of the room, and for a moment I’m reminded of my small basement apartment on Lorien, packed with all sorts of computer equipment and various electronic projects.

  Malcolm peeks through the window and looks into the backyard, where his son runs around with some big spaceship or airplane held over his head. When he seems satisfied that the boy is safe, he closes the blinds and turns to me.

  “How did you—,” he starts.

  “An old message board,” I say.

  “But . . . we abandoned that well before the ship landed. And we only ever spoke in code. Anything conspicuous was deleted.”

  “Nothing is ever really deleted from the internet, Malcolm. One day your people will figure that out. If it’s any consolation, it took me quite some time to find it.”

  He shakes his head. “But we were so careful. There were never any actual details mentioned. That was all reserved for face-to-face meetings.”

  “Someone didn’t follow the rules,” I say.

  He considers this for a moment, and then his face twists into a scowl.

  “I thought I’d gotten rid of . . .” He sighs. “Nothing is ever really deleted.” He purses his lips a little. “Ethan. I always figured he’d end up being trouble. That’s why we cut him out before the ship ever landed.”

  “How did Pittacus recruit you?” I ask. “Through your messages sent into space?”

  He looks at me quizzically before nodding.

  “I’ve done my research on you,” I explain. “Are you still in contact? Could you get a message out to him?”

  Malcolm’s eyebrows furrow together, and his gaze falls to the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “But Pittacus is dead.”

  These words land in my ears, but I feel them in my core, my stomach twisting so hard that I almost double over. This had always been a possible, if not likely, scenario. Still, hearing this for sure takes a little bit of air from my lungs. I always wanted the Elders out of power, but never dead. Not really. We are fewer and fewer.

  “You’re sure?” I ask.

  “Quite positive,” he says. He glances to the window overlooking the backyard and then back to me.

  “What about a man named Loridas?” I ask.

  “Another of the ‘Elders,’ yes? From what Pittacus told me . . . I think they’re all gone as well.”

  I nod slowly.

  “Was there anyone else on the ship other than the nine children and their guardians?”

  “No. Well, there was a pilot too, but he took the ship to hide it. I’m not—”

  “Janus,” I say. “His name was Janus. He’s dead too.”

  I turn away from him, taking a few steps toward a wall of bookshelves as I let all this information sink in.

  “Who are you?” he asks. “You speak their language. Are you from Lorien as well?”

  I’m about to answer when I see it—tucked under a few pages of loose paper on a bookshelf. A white tablet.

  I recognize it; it’s Loric. A tracking device used to keep tabs on ships, inventory and sometimes even people, depending on how it’s programmed.

  If it’s here . . .

  In a few quick strides I’m across the room and the tablet is in my hands, the papers on top of it tumbling to the floor.

  “He gave you this?” I ask.

  “Pittacus did, yes,” Malcolm says. “Though I’m afraid he didn’t give me any instructions other than to keep it safe. He was wounded and . . . do you know what it is?”

  I pull my laptop out of my bag and find a connector cable from one of the old Loric data pads. It slides into a port at the bottom of the white tablet, connecting it to my computer. Within seconds I’ve got a map of Earth pulled up on the device.

  “How did you . . .” He trails off.

  “I’m good with computers,” I murmur. “And I used these once or twice back on Lorien.”

  There are blue blips pulsing across the planet. Blue blips that represent people. Ten in all. Could this be the nine Garde plus one more? Maybe Ella? Given her parents’ powers, I wouldn’t be surprised if she developed gifts early on.

  Or is there another that I’m not accounting for?

  And there are two triangles too. One triangle is in Egypt—my crashed rocket. The second lies in the southwestern United States.

  The other ship.

  My pulse quickens until I can feel it throbbing at my temples.

  “Do you know this area?” I ask.

  Malcolm leans over my shoulder. “Let’s see. That looks like it would be . . . Oh.” He snorts a little. “Yes. I believe that’s where the Dulce Base is supposed to be located. A secret government operation. Most people are more familiar with Area 51, but this is no tourist trap like Roswell.”

  “Dulce,” I say to myself. That makes sense. If the American government stumbled across Janus’s ship, they’d likely want to keep it hidden. At least that means it’s not in Mog hands.

  “What’s in Dulce?” Malcolm asks.

  “This is perfect,” I say, ignoring him. “I’ll get the ship back. With this tablet I could easily collect the Garde too.”

  “You can’t,” Malcolm says, shaking his head rapidly. “They have to stay separated.”

  “They won’t stand a chance against the Mogs if they’re found alone,” I say.

  Something flashes on Malcolm’s face. He shakes his head a little.

  “You don’t know about the protection that’s been placed on them, do you?” he asks.
br />   I narrow my eyes. “I think we need to have a very long talk, Malcolm Goode.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  I KNEW THE ELDERS MUST HAVE BEEN UP TO something when they’d sent Garde to this planet. I’d even assumed that they’d in some way endanger the young Loric in the name of the greater good—the sort of thing I expected from Lorien’s rulers. Never did I imagine that they would give these nine children the order in which they would die and call it “protection.” In terms of survival, maybe it makes sense. But all I can do is think of the poor, unlucky kid who was picked to be Number One. What kind of burden is that to carry around with you?

  These nine Garde—somehow they’re to be the saviors of our people. That helps explain why the Mogadorians have come to Earth: if the escaped Garde will one day bring Lorien back to power, it’s not a stretch to assume that they might do so by somehow toppling those who destroyed our planet to begin with. Of course the Mogs want to eradicate them.

  It’s obvious now why they separated. The reason they’ve scattered so far, these tiny blips on my screen located across this planet. I’d been wary of reuniting them, but now I see for certain that this would be dangerous for everyone. The Mogs could take them out in a single attack that way, destroying all the children at once. Better that they stay separate. At least for now. At least until they’re older and stronger, with Legacies to fight with. I hope their Cêpans are skilled—that they’ve been given the strongest, most capable Mentors from our planet.

  I have to let them be. As much as I hate to do it, I have to rely on the wisdom of the Elders and the capabilities of the Cêpans. Even seeking the Garde out individually would mean I was running the risk of leading the Mogs right to them, no matter how careful I was. That leaves me with one clear goal.

  I’m going to Dulce to get that ship.

  “I’m taking this with me,” I say, staring down at the white tablet.

  “What?” Malcolm asks. “No. Why? You can’t.”

  “You don’t have a choice,” I say. The tablet is Loric. It belongs with me.

  “Pittacus told me to protect it. He said it would prove to be useful.”

  “Exactly. I’m going to use it.”

  “No.” Malcolm curls his fingers into fists and plants his feet in front of me. “It’s my responsibility. I’ve put everything on the line to help your people. My life. My family. Pittacus told me to keep this tablet safe for the Garde, and that’s what I’m going to do. One of the Cêpan—I believe his Loric name is Brandon—said he’d be back for it if there was trouble, or when his charge was at the age when he would start developing powers or whatever you know them as.”

  My hand moves towards my weapon. I don’t want to threaten Malcolm with violence—he’s right when he says he’s sacrificed much to help my people, after all—but I’m not leaving this piece of technology in the hands of someone who doesn’t even know how to use it properly.

  There’s a clattering from the hallway. I turn and see Malcolm’s kid standing there. A plastic robot is on the floor in front of him. He’s wearing a shirt with an image of Saturn on it, the sixth planet from this solar system’s sun. I recognize its rings; I’ve seen them up close, on my journey to this world. The boy is pale and thin and has sandy-blond hair, and even though physically he looks nothing like Zane, there’s something in his expression—full of wonder—that immediately makes me think of my brother. It hurts a place inside me I thought had finally begun to heal.

  “Sam,” Malcolm says, letting his posture slacken. “Go outside, would you?”

  Sam just stares up at me. Malcolm looks back and forth between us a few times before crossing the room and pushing Sam out of my sight.

  I think about the fact that this family in a small town in Ohio has perhaps saved the last of my people. And about how I was considering taking out my blaster and forcing Malcolm to let me have the tablet. What would Zophie say? What would Zane say?

  I’m not some Mogadorian thug. I’m not going to threaten this man and his son. That’s not who I am.

  Besides, if the Cêpans are counting on the white tablet being in Paradise, I can’t very well take it back to Alabama.

  “Your son can stay,” I say, setting the tracking device down on Malcolm’s desk and packing up my gear. “I should be on my way.”

  Malcolm looks confused but nods.

  “Tell whoever comes for the tablet that the ship in Egypt is wrecked,” I say, moving past Malcolm and his son towards the front door.

  “Wait,” he says. “Who are you? How did you get here? You haven’t even told me your name. Where are you going?”

  “New Mexico.” I stop on the porch, turning to him. “Malcolm. Take my visit as a warning. I found you. It took me a while, but I did. And that means the Mog—” I glance at Sam, hiding behind his father’s legs. “That others might be able to as well. Others who aren’t as friendly as I am.”

  Malcolm stares hard at me, nodding a little bit.

  “Keep your family safe,” I say, stepping down onto the Goodes’ yard. “And the tablet too. At least hide the damned thing. The last thing we need is for that to fall into the enemy’s hands.”

  Malcolm is still on the porch when I back out of his driveway. Sam lingers in the doorframe. As I start down the road, he waves to me.

  The drive from Paradise to Dulce is a long one. Lush green fields eventually give way to flat plains that seem to stretch on past the horizon. I rest at a motel in Kansas for a few hours, hardly sleeping because, for the first time since I arrived on Earth, I know exactly where Janus’s ship is. And because I’m worried about how I’m going to get to it. I run through what history I can find of this “secret base” online. Most of it seems to come from conspiracy theorists and quacks—though, considering that Malcolm was viewed as one of those by the rest of his profession, perhaps I shouldn’t be so quick to pass judgment. It seems that most believe this base is some sort of research facility, which I hope means it won’t be guarded too heavily. Maybe I’ll even be able to tap into its communications once I’m close by so I can get a feel for what the security is like inside—something I dare not try to do on the motel’s unsecure network.

  Perhaps. Maybe. The uncertainties are many, and I have to remind myself that this is something I cannot rush. I can’t just cut through a fence or hop over a gate and storm the base, rushing headfirst into this situation. Only a fool would be so brazen—or naive—to do so.

  I get a sense of the area where the base is supposed to be via online maps and photographs, and then try to sleep. The next morning I rise before the sun and drive through the mountains of Colorado, which eventually give way to the arid terrain of New Mexico.

  Once I spot a chain-link fence topped in razor wire and covered in signs warning against photography and trespassing, I figure I’m in the right place. The base’s perimeter is barely visible from the trail-like road I’m on. It’s the middle of the afternoon, and I’m not exactly inconspicuous driving around the desert area in my big, black SUV, so I don’t test my luck by getting any closer to the fence. Instead, I head to the nearby town of Dulce and pay for a week at a cheap motel. I stash most of my things in a shoddy little room in case I manage to get the ship and have to leave my car behind. I keep a few weapons with me, then round up some additional supplies from a sporting-goods store. Night-vision goggles. Some wire cutters, just in case.

  At night I return. I park a half mile from the fence and scope out the site with my new goggles. I don’t notice any cameras or alarms. It’s not until I get closer that I can finally see the tops of buildings and some of the grounds of the base. I stand a few feet from the fence and observe.

  And I see things I can’t even begin to comprehend.

  The base is owned by United States government agencies—that’s obvious from the information I found online and the signs dotting the fence line warning that I’ve approached a “military encampment.” I can also see plenty of vehicles with government plates and markings. There are a handfu
l of armed personnel around, wearing camouflage, pacing back and forth.

  But that’s not what causes my mouth to drop open and my hands to shake.

  There’s a ship sitting beside a tall watchtower. Not a Loric ship, but one I recognize all the same. Hundreds just like it swarmed the skies during the invasion of Lorien, raining fire and death down upon my planet, dropping off battalions of soldiers who slaughtered my people.

  It’s Mogadorian.

  “Holy shit,” I whisper. “What are the Mogs doing here?”

  My mind reels with the implications. Either the Mogs have taken over this base and are somehow forcing humans to work for them or . . .

  I swallow down a mixture of anger and disbelief.

  Or the Mogs and the American government are somehow working together.

  This just got much more complicated.

  I slowly lower the night-vision goggles, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. It’s only then that I hear the footsteps behind me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “HANDS IN THE AIR!” A MAN SHOUTS. FLASHLIGHTS go on. I hear a few metallic clicks behind me.

  One glance over my shoulder tells me these aren’t Mogs. Four men in brown law enforcement uniforms form a half circle behind me, pinning me up against the fence. Their guns are aimed at my back, but the weapons shake a little. They seem almost scared.

  I take a moment before moving, going over my options. I’ve got a shotgun in the backseat and Raylan’s blaster in my coat pocket. I could try to make a run for it. . . .

  But these are humans. They’re probably just doing their jobs. What are the chances I could make it out of here without accidentally killing one of them?

  Part of me says I shouldn’t care—that me escaping would be for the sake of the remaining Loric. But that sounds an awful lot like something the Elders would say. And I am not an Elder.

  I’m reminded for the second time in the last twenty-four hours why I like to work behind the scenes.

  “I said, hands in the air where I can see ’em!” the same voice shouts.