The Guard, Page 7
Pittacus Lore
Several of my computers start beeping, telling me that something important has happened. That news is breaking.
“Sarah, what is it?” Mark is by her side in a few swift steps. And then he too is unable to form words.
It’s only when I join them that I realize what’s wrong.
A giant Mogadorian warship is hovering over New York City.
“It’s happening,” I murmur. “The invasion has begun.”
It’s not just New York; the ships are everywhere, over cities across the planet. We watch the news in shocked silence until Sarah’s satellite phone rings, and we all move at once. As Sarah speaks to Number Four, I spring into action, opening my laptop. Reporters are starting to talk about some sort of conference at the UN—something that’s been alluded to in MogPro documents I’d uncovered on Purdy’s computer but never really understood. This invasion is so much different from Lorien’s: there is no fire or missiles. At least, not yet.
“I think they’re going to pretend to be diplomatic about this,” I say.
“That would explain why they’ve cozied up to the government so much,” Mark agrees. He pulls a laptop out of his bag—the one I gave him back before he tried to get into Dulce—and starts typing.
“Get me everything damning you have about the US and the Mogs that you haven’t sent me. If the Mogs are going public, so are we. It’s time to tell this planet everything we know. I want this info on the front page of every website, every—”
“Way ahead of you,” he says with a grin. “I’m sending you a zip file that includes the worst of the worst of MogPro and a collection of the most relevant posts I did for ‘They Walk Among Us.’ Some I haven’t even proofed or uploaded yet.”
The files show up on my screen. They’re the perfect complement to the info bomb I’ve been putting together myself over the last few years.
“This is great, Mark.” I nod to him.
He shrugs. “I’m not letting these dickwads try to pull a fast one on the human race.”
“It sounds like the others are on the same wavelength,” Sarah says, hanging up from her call. “Sam just sent us some video. Footage of John using his powers to heal someone and some clips of Mogs shooting. I was thinking we could make a video or something to explain what’s happening?”
“That’s good,” Mark says. “We could link all this MogPro info from it. GUARD—I mean, Lexa—could you, I don’t know. . . . push a video to the front page of YouTube or something?”
“Easily,” I say. “You two focus on getting that ready. I’m going to take care of a few last-minute adjustments to this ship and make sure she’s ready for travel. And fully stocked—I’ve accumulated an arsenal of weapons here.”
Mark bangs his fist against the desk he’s set his laptop on.
“Dammit,” he says. “I was going to use that video of John going all Superman and jumping out of my burning house, but I can’t find it.”
“Of course not,” I say, tapping on my computer. “I scrubbed that video from the internet as soon as it came to my attention. I also managed to crash the cell phone it came from. Here, I just sent you a copy I saved for my records, along with some other images and footage I’ve collected over the years.”
As I start to walk away, I hear Sarah whisper to Mark.
“She’s good.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” he says back.
I start a final inspection on the new fuel line for the ship, trying to cram days of work into a few hours. I pause only when Sarah starts shouting, and I watch on television as fighting breaks out at the United Nations. Number Four is there, looking powerful and unwavering as he faces Setrákus Ra, the leader of the Mogadorians. Sarah is pale as she watches but doesn’t say anything. When the TV feed cuts out, she just nods.
“I’m ready to record the voice-over.”
They get back to work. So do I. Hours pass, and when I finally take a break for water and an energy bar I find Mark and Sarah still huddled around Mark’s laptop.
“Hey!” Mark says. “Come look at this!”
He and Sarah scoot apart as they bring up a video to full screen and hit play.
“This is our planet, but we are not alone in the galaxy.” Sarah’s voice comes through the speakers, cool and measured, as the video zooms out on a picture of the Earth. The footage switches to the YouTube clip of Number Four and then to him hovering his glowing hands over someone I hardly recognize as the secretary of defense. John appears to be healing him. Sarah continues.
“There are aliens among us. Good aliens. Refugees from the planet Lorien. This is John Smith, one of the Loric Garde—a boy blessed with incredible powers. He fights for Earth now. It’s his home.”
The video switches to clips of Mogadorians with blasters herding humans around on what look like the streets of New York.
“The ships above our cities now are not friendly. They are the Mogadorians—the bad aliens who destroyed John Smith’s home world. They have come here to enslave us and to take Earth for their own. They have even found allies in our own government.”
Various documents and bits of text pop up on the screen—I recognize them as MogPro files. The footage suddenly switches to a graphic showing the locations of the Mog warships. It looks like a screen grab Mark took from one of the news stations.
Sarah concludes: “We are not alone. They walk among us. We must join forces with the Loric and fight the Mogadorians.”
The video ends.
“So, if they click anywhere on the video, it takes them to the website and to all the files we’ve put together,” Mark says. “And there’ll be a link in the description, obviously. Do you think it’s okay?”
“It’s the best we can do on short notice,” Sarah says. She bites her lip as she stares at the screen.
“It’s great,” I say. “Upload it to ‘They Walk Among Us,’ in case the video gets pulled.”
When it’s uploaded, I manipulate a few lines of code and algorithms so that the video is at the top of every internet search and all over the front page of YouTube. The number of views skyrocket over the course of a few minutes, faster than the counters can keep up with. Even with everything that’s happening across the planet, the video spreads. Mark says it’s “gone viral.” In a world suddenly full of questions, we, for once, are able to offer some answers.
Before long it’s being shown on news stations across the globe.
I may have had doubts about many things on this planet, but the way information spreads here has proven to be more impressive than I could ever have imagined.
Mark continues tapping on his computer while Sarah tries futilely to get Number Four on her satellite phone. She never takes her eyes off the news. Night falls. I go back to working on the ship. Ideally I’d have some time to take it out for a few tests before storming into battle, but I don’t have that luxury now—not with warships parked over cities across the globe. Still, I take the time to triple-check my work and run every diagnostic test I can think of. The last thing we need is a systems failure in the middle of a fight with the Mogs.
It’s light outside when I’m finally satisfied with my work and come back out into the hangar. Mark is slumped over the desk, mouth open as he sleeps, snoring softly.
Sarah gives me a weak smile.
“He passed out while refreshing the view counts. I figured he could use the rest.” She stares at the phone in her hands, and it’s obvious she still hasn’t been able to get in contact with Number Four.
“From what I’ve seen of him, Number—John is quite the impressive Garde. I’m sure he’s still fighting.”
Sarah nods a little. “Yeah. Of course he is.”
She gets quiet, and it feels as though the energy has been sucked out of the room. After being alone for so long, I am perhaps not the best at small talk. And so I grab a couple of bottles of water from a mini fridge and slam one down next to Mark’s head. He jumps, springing to life.
“What? Where?” His eyes dart around and his brea
thing quickens until he remembers where he is. “Oh, right. What’d I miss?”
Sarah’s phone starts ringing before either of us can answer.
“It’s him,” she half shouts as she jumps to her feet. “He’ll know what’s going on in New York.”
“Right on cue,” Mark says through a yawn. “Our ET savior.”
Sarah answers on the third ring. Her face is bright—hopeful despite everything going wrong across the planet.
“John?” she asks, breathless, and the few seconds before the voice on the other end of the line responds are an eternity.
“All right.” Mark rolls his chair over to me. He stretches his arms over his head and cracks his neck. “What now?”
“I’ve waited years for this fight to arrive.” I point to the ship. “I say we join the rest of the Garde and show the Mogadorians what this old girl can do. There’s no use hiding in the shadows anymore.”
“Hell, yeah. Let’s kick some Mog ass.”
“It’s time we take the fight to them.” I turn to Mark. I can’t help but smile a little. “I want to see if Ella remembers me when we free her.”
EXCERPT FROM THE FATE OF TEN
DON’T MISS BOOK SIX IN THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING I AM NUMBER FOUR SERIES
CHAPTER ONE
WE RUN PAST THE BROKEN WING OF AN EXPLODED jet fighter, the jagged metal lodged in the middle of a city street like a shark’s fin. How long ago was it that we watched the jets scream by overhead, a course set for uptown and the Anubis? It feels like days, but it must only be hours. Some of the people we’re with—the survivors—they whooped and cheered when they saw the jets, like the tide was going to turn.
I knew better. Kept quiet. Only a few minutes later, we could hear the explosions as the Anubis blew those jets out of the sky, scattering pieces of Earth’s most sophisticated military all over the island of Manhattan. They haven’t sent any more jets in.
How many deaths is that? Hundreds. Thousands. Maybe more. And it’s all my fault. Because I couldn’t kill Setrákus Ra when I had the chance.
“On the left!” a voice shouts from somewhere behind me. I whip my head around, charge up a fireball without thinking about it, and incinerate a Mog scout as he comes around a corner. Me, Sam, the couple dozen survivors we picked up along the way—we barely break stride. We’re in lower Manhattan now. Ran here. Fought our way down. Block by block. Trying to put some distance between us and Midtown, where the Mogs are strongest, where we last saw the Anubis.
I’m exhausted.
I stumble. I can’t even feel my feet anymore, they’re so tired. I think I’m about to collapse. An arm goes around my shoulders and steadies me.
“John?” Sam asks, concerned. He’s holding me up. It sounds like his voice is coming through a tunnel. I try to reply to him, but the words don’t come. Sam turns his head and speaks to one of the other survivors. “We need to get off the streets for a while. He needs to rest.”
Next thing I know, I slump back against the wall of an apartment building lobby. I must have gone out for a minute. I try to brace myself, try to pull myself together. I have to keep fighting.
But I can’t do it—my body refuses to take any more punishment. I let myself slide down the wall so that I’m sitting on the floor. The carpet is covered in dust and broken glass that must’ve blown in from outside. There are about twenty-five of us huddled together here. These are all we could manage to save. Bloodstained and dirty, a few of them wounded, all of us tired.
How many injuries did I heal today? It was easy, at first. After so many, though, I could feel my healing Legacy draining my own energy. I must have hit my limit.
I remember the people not by name but by how I found them or what I healed. Broken-Arm and Pinned-Under-Car look concerned, scared.
A woman, Jumped-from-Window, puts her hand on my shoulder, checking on me. I nod to tell her I’m all right and she looks relieved.
Right in front of me, Sam talks with a uniformed cop in his fifties. The cop has dried blood all over one side of his face from a cut on top of his head that I healed. I forget his name or where we found him. Their voices sound far away, like they’re echoing down a mile-long tunnel. I have to focus my hearing to understand the words, and even that takes a colossal effort. My head feels wrapped in cotton.
“Word came in over the radio that we’ve got a foothold on the Brooklyn Bridge,” the cop says. “NYPD, National Guard, army . . . hell, everyone. They’re holding the bridge. Evacuating survivors from there. It’s only a few blocks away and they say the Mogs are concentrated uptown. We can make it.”
“Then you should go,” Sam answers. “Go now while the coast is clear, before another of their patrols comes through.”
“You should come with us, kid.”
“We can’t,” Sam replies. “One of our friends is still out there. We have to find him.”
Nine. That’s who we have to find. The last we saw him, he was battling Five in front of the United Nations. Through the United Nations. We have to find him before we can leave New York. We have to find him and save as many people as we can. I’m starting to come to my senses, but I’m still too exhausted to move. I open my mouth to speak, but all I manage to do is groan.
“He’s had it,” says the cop, and I know he’s talking about me. “You two have done enough. Get out with us now, while you can.”
“He’ll be fine,” Sam says. The doubt in his voice makes me grit my teeth and focus. I need to press on, to dig down and keep fighting.
“He passed out.”
“He just needs to rest for a minute.”
“I’m fine,” I mumble, but I don’t think they hear me.
“You’re gonna get killed if you stay, kid,” the cop tells Sam, sternly shaking his head. “You can’t keep this up. There’s too many for just you two to fight. Leave it to the army, or . . .”
He trails off. We all know the army already made their attempt. Manhattan is lost.
“We’ll get out as soon as we can,” Sam replies.
“You hear me down there?” The cop is talking to me now. Lecturing me in the same way Henri used to. I wonder if he’s got kids somewhere. “There’s nothing left for you to do here. You got us this far, let us do the rest. We’ll carry you to the bridge if we have to.”
The survivors assembled around the cop nod, murmuring in agreement. Sam looks at me, his eyebrows raised in question. His face is smeared with dirt and ash. He looks hollowed out and weak, like he’s barely standing himself. A Mog blaster hangs from his hip, hooked there by a chopped piece of electric cord, and it’s like Sam’s entire body slumps in that direction, the extra weight threatening to pull him over.
I force myself to stand up. My muscles are limp and almost useless, though. I’m trying to show the police officer and the others that I’ve got some fight left in me but I can tell by the pitying way they’re staring at me that I don’t look very inspiring. I can barely keep my knees from shaking. For a moment, it feels like I’m going to crash down to the floor. But then something happens—I feel like a force is lifting and pulling me, supporting some of my weight, straightening my back and squaring my shoulders. I don’t know how I’m doing this, where I’m finding the strength. It’s almost supernatural.
No, actually, it’s not supernatural at all. It’s Sam. Telekinetic Sam, concentrating on me, making it look like I’ve still got some gas left in the tank.
“We’re staying,” I say firmly, my voice scratchy. “There are more people to save.”
The cop shakes his head in wonder. Behind him, a girl that I vaguely remember rescuing from a collapsing fire escape bursts into tears. I’m not sure if she’s inspired or if I just look terrible. Sam remains completely focused on me, stone-faced, a fresh bead of sweat forming on his temple.
“Get to safety,” I tell the survivors. “Then, help however you can. This is your planet. We’re all going to save it together.”
The cop strides forward to shake my hand. His grip
is like a vise. “We won’t forget you, John Smith,” he says. “All of us, we owe you our lives.”
“Give them hell,” someone else says.
And then all at once the rest of the group of survivors are blurting out their good-byes and their gratitude. I grit my teeth in what I hope is a smile. The truth is, I’m too tired for this. The cop—he’s their leader now, he’ll keep them safe—he makes sure everyone keeps it quiet and quick, eventually hustling them out of the apartment building’s lobby and onto the Brooklyn Bridge.
As soon as we’re alone, Sam releases me from the telekinetic grip he was using to hold me upright and I slump backwards against the wall, struggling to keep my feet under me. He’s out of breath and sweating from the exertion of keeping me standing. He’s not Loric and he’s had no proper training, yet somehow Sam has developed a Legacy and begun using it the best he can. Considering our situation, he’s had no choice but to learn on the fly. Sam with a Legacy—if things weren’t so chaotic and desperate, I’d be more excited. I’m not sure how or why this happened to him, but Sam’s newfound powers are pretty much the only win we’ve had since coming to New York.
“Thanks,” I say, the words coming easier now.
“No problem,” Sam replies, panting. “You’re the symbol of the Earth’s resistance; we can’t have you laying around.”
I try to push off from the wall, but my legs aren’t ready yet to support my full weight. It’s easier if I just lean against it and drag myself towards the nearest apartment door.
“Look at me. I’m not the symbol of anything,” I grumble.
“Come on,” he says. “You’re exhausted.”
Sam puts his arm around me, helping me along. He’s dragging too, though, so I try not to put much weight on him. We’ve been through hell in the last few hours. The skin on my hands still tingles from how much I’ve had to use my Lumen, tossing fireballs at squad after squad of Mog attackers. I hope the nerve endings aren’t permanently singed or something. The thought of igniting my Lumen right now makes my knees nearly buckle.
“Sarah, what is it?” Mark is by her side in a few swift steps. And then he too is unable to form words.
It’s only when I join them that I realize what’s wrong.
A giant Mogadorian warship is hovering over New York City.
“It’s happening,” I murmur. “The invasion has begun.”
It’s not just New York; the ships are everywhere, over cities across the planet. We watch the news in shocked silence until Sarah’s satellite phone rings, and we all move at once. As Sarah speaks to Number Four, I spring into action, opening my laptop. Reporters are starting to talk about some sort of conference at the UN—something that’s been alluded to in MogPro documents I’d uncovered on Purdy’s computer but never really understood. This invasion is so much different from Lorien’s: there is no fire or missiles. At least, not yet.
“I think they’re going to pretend to be diplomatic about this,” I say.
“That would explain why they’ve cozied up to the government so much,” Mark agrees. He pulls a laptop out of his bag—the one I gave him back before he tried to get into Dulce—and starts typing.
“Get me everything damning you have about the US and the Mogs that you haven’t sent me. If the Mogs are going public, so are we. It’s time to tell this planet everything we know. I want this info on the front page of every website, every—”
“Way ahead of you,” he says with a grin. “I’m sending you a zip file that includes the worst of the worst of MogPro and a collection of the most relevant posts I did for ‘They Walk Among Us.’ Some I haven’t even proofed or uploaded yet.”
The files show up on my screen. They’re the perfect complement to the info bomb I’ve been putting together myself over the last few years.
“This is great, Mark.” I nod to him.
He shrugs. “I’m not letting these dickwads try to pull a fast one on the human race.”
“It sounds like the others are on the same wavelength,” Sarah says, hanging up from her call. “Sam just sent us some video. Footage of John using his powers to heal someone and some clips of Mogs shooting. I was thinking we could make a video or something to explain what’s happening?”
“That’s good,” Mark says. “We could link all this MogPro info from it. GUARD—I mean, Lexa—could you, I don’t know. . . . push a video to the front page of YouTube or something?”
“Easily,” I say. “You two focus on getting that ready. I’m going to take care of a few last-minute adjustments to this ship and make sure she’s ready for travel. And fully stocked—I’ve accumulated an arsenal of weapons here.”
Mark bangs his fist against the desk he’s set his laptop on.
“Dammit,” he says. “I was going to use that video of John going all Superman and jumping out of my burning house, but I can’t find it.”
“Of course not,” I say, tapping on my computer. “I scrubbed that video from the internet as soon as it came to my attention. I also managed to crash the cell phone it came from. Here, I just sent you a copy I saved for my records, along with some other images and footage I’ve collected over the years.”
As I start to walk away, I hear Sarah whisper to Mark.
“She’s good.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” he says back.
I start a final inspection on the new fuel line for the ship, trying to cram days of work into a few hours. I pause only when Sarah starts shouting, and I watch on television as fighting breaks out at the United Nations. Number Four is there, looking powerful and unwavering as he faces Setrákus Ra, the leader of the Mogadorians. Sarah is pale as she watches but doesn’t say anything. When the TV feed cuts out, she just nods.
“I’m ready to record the voice-over.”
They get back to work. So do I. Hours pass, and when I finally take a break for water and an energy bar I find Mark and Sarah still huddled around Mark’s laptop.
“Hey!” Mark says. “Come look at this!”
He and Sarah scoot apart as they bring up a video to full screen and hit play.
“This is our planet, but we are not alone in the galaxy.” Sarah’s voice comes through the speakers, cool and measured, as the video zooms out on a picture of the Earth. The footage switches to the YouTube clip of Number Four and then to him hovering his glowing hands over someone I hardly recognize as the secretary of defense. John appears to be healing him. Sarah continues.
“There are aliens among us. Good aliens. Refugees from the planet Lorien. This is John Smith, one of the Loric Garde—a boy blessed with incredible powers. He fights for Earth now. It’s his home.”
The video switches to clips of Mogadorians with blasters herding humans around on what look like the streets of New York.
“The ships above our cities now are not friendly. They are the Mogadorians—the bad aliens who destroyed John Smith’s home world. They have come here to enslave us and to take Earth for their own. They have even found allies in our own government.”
Various documents and bits of text pop up on the screen—I recognize them as MogPro files. The footage suddenly switches to a graphic showing the locations of the Mog warships. It looks like a screen grab Mark took from one of the news stations.
Sarah concludes: “We are not alone. They walk among us. We must join forces with the Loric and fight the Mogadorians.”
The video ends.
“So, if they click anywhere on the video, it takes them to the website and to all the files we’ve put together,” Mark says. “And there’ll be a link in the description, obviously. Do you think it’s okay?”
“It’s the best we can do on short notice,” Sarah says. She bites her lip as she stares at the screen.
“It’s great,” I say. “Upload it to ‘They Walk Among Us,’ in case the video gets pulled.”
When it’s uploaded, I manipulate a few lines of code and algorithms so that the video is at the top of every internet search and all over the front page of YouTube. The number of views skyrocket over the course of a few minutes, faster than the counters can keep up with. Even with everything that’s happening across the planet, the video spreads. Mark says it’s “gone viral.” In a world suddenly full of questions, we, for once, are able to offer some answers.
Before long it’s being shown on news stations across the globe.
I may have had doubts about many things on this planet, but the way information spreads here has proven to be more impressive than I could ever have imagined.
Mark continues tapping on his computer while Sarah tries futilely to get Number Four on her satellite phone. She never takes her eyes off the news. Night falls. I go back to working on the ship. Ideally I’d have some time to take it out for a few tests before storming into battle, but I don’t have that luxury now—not with warships parked over cities across the globe. Still, I take the time to triple-check my work and run every diagnostic test I can think of. The last thing we need is a systems failure in the middle of a fight with the Mogs.
It’s light outside when I’m finally satisfied with my work and come back out into the hangar. Mark is slumped over the desk, mouth open as he sleeps, snoring softly.
Sarah gives me a weak smile.
“He passed out while refreshing the view counts. I figured he could use the rest.” She stares at the phone in her hands, and it’s obvious she still hasn’t been able to get in contact with Number Four.
“From what I’ve seen of him, Number—John is quite the impressive Garde. I’m sure he’s still fighting.”
Sarah nods a little. “Yeah. Of course he is.”
She gets quiet, and it feels as though the energy has been sucked out of the room. After being alone for so long, I am perhaps not the best at small talk. And so I grab a couple of bottles of water from a mini fridge and slam one down next to Mark’s head. He jumps, springing to life.
“What? Where?” His eyes dart around and his brea
thing quickens until he remembers where he is. “Oh, right. What’d I miss?”
Sarah’s phone starts ringing before either of us can answer.
“It’s him,” she half shouts as she jumps to her feet. “He’ll know what’s going on in New York.”
“Right on cue,” Mark says through a yawn. “Our ET savior.”
Sarah answers on the third ring. Her face is bright—hopeful despite everything going wrong across the planet.
“John?” she asks, breathless, and the few seconds before the voice on the other end of the line responds are an eternity.
“All right.” Mark rolls his chair over to me. He stretches his arms over his head and cracks his neck. “What now?”
“I’ve waited years for this fight to arrive.” I point to the ship. “I say we join the rest of the Garde and show the Mogadorians what this old girl can do. There’s no use hiding in the shadows anymore.”
“Hell, yeah. Let’s kick some Mog ass.”
“It’s time we take the fight to them.” I turn to Mark. I can’t help but smile a little. “I want to see if Ella remembers me when we free her.”
EXCERPT FROM THE FATE OF TEN
DON’T MISS BOOK SIX IN THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING I AM NUMBER FOUR SERIES
CHAPTER ONE
WE RUN PAST THE BROKEN WING OF AN EXPLODED jet fighter, the jagged metal lodged in the middle of a city street like a shark’s fin. How long ago was it that we watched the jets scream by overhead, a course set for uptown and the Anubis? It feels like days, but it must only be hours. Some of the people we’re with—the survivors—they whooped and cheered when they saw the jets, like the tide was going to turn.
I knew better. Kept quiet. Only a few minutes later, we could hear the explosions as the Anubis blew those jets out of the sky, scattering pieces of Earth’s most sophisticated military all over the island of Manhattan. They haven’t sent any more jets in.
How many deaths is that? Hundreds. Thousands. Maybe more. And it’s all my fault. Because I couldn’t kill Setrákus Ra when I had the chance.
“On the left!” a voice shouts from somewhere behind me. I whip my head around, charge up a fireball without thinking about it, and incinerate a Mog scout as he comes around a corner. Me, Sam, the couple dozen survivors we picked up along the way—we barely break stride. We’re in lower Manhattan now. Ran here. Fought our way down. Block by block. Trying to put some distance between us and Midtown, where the Mogs are strongest, where we last saw the Anubis.
I’m exhausted.
I stumble. I can’t even feel my feet anymore, they’re so tired. I think I’m about to collapse. An arm goes around my shoulders and steadies me.
“John?” Sam asks, concerned. He’s holding me up. It sounds like his voice is coming through a tunnel. I try to reply to him, but the words don’t come. Sam turns his head and speaks to one of the other survivors. “We need to get off the streets for a while. He needs to rest.”
Next thing I know, I slump back against the wall of an apartment building lobby. I must have gone out for a minute. I try to brace myself, try to pull myself together. I have to keep fighting.
But I can’t do it—my body refuses to take any more punishment. I let myself slide down the wall so that I’m sitting on the floor. The carpet is covered in dust and broken glass that must’ve blown in from outside. There are about twenty-five of us huddled together here. These are all we could manage to save. Bloodstained and dirty, a few of them wounded, all of us tired.
How many injuries did I heal today? It was easy, at first. After so many, though, I could feel my healing Legacy draining my own energy. I must have hit my limit.
I remember the people not by name but by how I found them or what I healed. Broken-Arm and Pinned-Under-Car look concerned, scared.
A woman, Jumped-from-Window, puts her hand on my shoulder, checking on me. I nod to tell her I’m all right and she looks relieved.
Right in front of me, Sam talks with a uniformed cop in his fifties. The cop has dried blood all over one side of his face from a cut on top of his head that I healed. I forget his name or where we found him. Their voices sound far away, like they’re echoing down a mile-long tunnel. I have to focus my hearing to understand the words, and even that takes a colossal effort. My head feels wrapped in cotton.
“Word came in over the radio that we’ve got a foothold on the Brooklyn Bridge,” the cop says. “NYPD, National Guard, army . . . hell, everyone. They’re holding the bridge. Evacuating survivors from there. It’s only a few blocks away and they say the Mogs are concentrated uptown. We can make it.”
“Then you should go,” Sam answers. “Go now while the coast is clear, before another of their patrols comes through.”
“You should come with us, kid.”
“We can’t,” Sam replies. “One of our friends is still out there. We have to find him.”
Nine. That’s who we have to find. The last we saw him, he was battling Five in front of the United Nations. Through the United Nations. We have to find him before we can leave New York. We have to find him and save as many people as we can. I’m starting to come to my senses, but I’m still too exhausted to move. I open my mouth to speak, but all I manage to do is groan.
“He’s had it,” says the cop, and I know he’s talking about me. “You two have done enough. Get out with us now, while you can.”
“He’ll be fine,” Sam says. The doubt in his voice makes me grit my teeth and focus. I need to press on, to dig down and keep fighting.
“He passed out.”
“He just needs to rest for a minute.”
“I’m fine,” I mumble, but I don’t think they hear me.
“You’re gonna get killed if you stay, kid,” the cop tells Sam, sternly shaking his head. “You can’t keep this up. There’s too many for just you two to fight. Leave it to the army, or . . .”
He trails off. We all know the army already made their attempt. Manhattan is lost.
“We’ll get out as soon as we can,” Sam replies.
“You hear me down there?” The cop is talking to me now. Lecturing me in the same way Henri used to. I wonder if he’s got kids somewhere. “There’s nothing left for you to do here. You got us this far, let us do the rest. We’ll carry you to the bridge if we have to.”
The survivors assembled around the cop nod, murmuring in agreement. Sam looks at me, his eyebrows raised in question. His face is smeared with dirt and ash. He looks hollowed out and weak, like he’s barely standing himself. A Mog blaster hangs from his hip, hooked there by a chopped piece of electric cord, and it’s like Sam’s entire body slumps in that direction, the extra weight threatening to pull him over.
I force myself to stand up. My muscles are limp and almost useless, though. I’m trying to show the police officer and the others that I’ve got some fight left in me but I can tell by the pitying way they’re staring at me that I don’t look very inspiring. I can barely keep my knees from shaking. For a moment, it feels like I’m going to crash down to the floor. But then something happens—I feel like a force is lifting and pulling me, supporting some of my weight, straightening my back and squaring my shoulders. I don’t know how I’m doing this, where I’m finding the strength. It’s almost supernatural.
No, actually, it’s not supernatural at all. It’s Sam. Telekinetic Sam, concentrating on me, making it look like I’ve still got some gas left in the tank.
“We’re staying,” I say firmly, my voice scratchy. “There are more people to save.”
The cop shakes his head in wonder. Behind him, a girl that I vaguely remember rescuing from a collapsing fire escape bursts into tears. I’m not sure if she’s inspired or if I just look terrible. Sam remains completely focused on me, stone-faced, a fresh bead of sweat forming on his temple.
“Get to safety,” I tell the survivors. “Then, help however you can. This is your planet. We’re all going to save it together.”
The cop strides forward to shake my hand. His grip
is like a vise. “We won’t forget you, John Smith,” he says. “All of us, we owe you our lives.”
“Give them hell,” someone else says.
And then all at once the rest of the group of survivors are blurting out their good-byes and their gratitude. I grit my teeth in what I hope is a smile. The truth is, I’m too tired for this. The cop—he’s their leader now, he’ll keep them safe—he makes sure everyone keeps it quiet and quick, eventually hustling them out of the apartment building’s lobby and onto the Brooklyn Bridge.
As soon as we’re alone, Sam releases me from the telekinetic grip he was using to hold me upright and I slump backwards against the wall, struggling to keep my feet under me. He’s out of breath and sweating from the exertion of keeping me standing. He’s not Loric and he’s had no proper training, yet somehow Sam has developed a Legacy and begun using it the best he can. Considering our situation, he’s had no choice but to learn on the fly. Sam with a Legacy—if things weren’t so chaotic and desperate, I’d be more excited. I’m not sure how or why this happened to him, but Sam’s newfound powers are pretty much the only win we’ve had since coming to New York.
“Thanks,” I say, the words coming easier now.
“No problem,” Sam replies, panting. “You’re the symbol of the Earth’s resistance; we can’t have you laying around.”
I try to push off from the wall, but my legs aren’t ready yet to support my full weight. It’s easier if I just lean against it and drag myself towards the nearest apartment door.
“Look at me. I’m not the symbol of anything,” I grumble.
“Come on,” he says. “You’re exhausted.”
Sam puts his arm around me, helping me along. He’s dragging too, though, so I try not to put much weight on him. We’ve been through hell in the last few hours. The skin on my hands still tingles from how much I’ve had to use my Lumen, tossing fireballs at squad after squad of Mog attackers. I hope the nerve endings aren’t permanently singed or something. The thought of igniting my Lumen right now makes my knees nearly buckle.
