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‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘There’s someone up ahead.’
I hear it then, too. A motor – one that does a lot less hiccupping than Dale’s – getting louder as it moves increasingly closer. With the zigzag pattern this tributary takes through the trees, we can’t yet see this other boat.
‘Are there other dirtbag swamp people out this far?’ Nine asks, eyeballing Dale.
‘Sometimes,’ Dale replies. He looks around at us, as if something has just occurred to him. ‘Now, hold on. Are we in danger? Because I didn’t sign up for that.’
‘You didn’t sign up for anything,’ Nine reminds him.
‘Hush,’ Marina snaps. ‘Here they come.’
I could turn us invisible. It occurs to me to grab hold of Marina and Nine, use my Legacy and make it look like Dale’s alone out here. But I don’t. Marina and Nine don’t look like they’re in any mood to hold hands either.
If there are Mogadorians out there, we want this fight.
I watch a dark outline pass through the clutter of trees and glide into the water in front of us. It’s a pontoon boat just like ours except much sleeker and probably with a few dozen less leaks. As soon as we come into view, the second boat also cuts its engine. It drifts about thirty yards in front of us, its wake causing us to bob on a gentle wave.
The boat is manned by three Mogadorians. Because of the heat, they’ve removed their stupid black leather trench coats and stripped down to tank tops, their arms shining pasty white, their blasters and daggers clearly visible along their belts. I wonder what they’re doing out here, brazenly out in the open, and then realize that they’re probably looking for us. After all, the swamps are our last known location. These unlucky Mog scouts must’ve drawn swamp duty.
Everyone is very still. We stare at the Mogs, and I wonder if they’ll even recognize us in the state we’re in. The Mogs stare back, not making any move to restart their boat and get out of our way.
‘Friends of yours?’ Dale slurs.
His voice breaks the standoff. In unison, two of the Mogs reach for their blasters, the third spinning around to restart their engine. I shove forward with my telekinesis, hitting the front of their boat with as much force as I can muster, causing the ship’s bow to rise up from the water. The Mog going for the engine falls overboard, and the other two go staggering backwards.
A split second after my telekinetic attack, Marina leans over the side and plunges her hand into the swamp water. A sheet of ice spreads out from her towards the Mogs’ boat, the water cracking and popping as it flash freezes. Their boat is stuck on a tilt, half out of the water, as the ice floe coalesces around it.
Nine bounds out of our boat, gracefully runs across Marina’s ice floe and hurdles over the side of the Mogs’ boat. He grabs the nearest Mog around the neck, his momentum and the boat’s sloped deck causing them to stumble towards the boat’s rear. The second Mog gets his blaster up and aims at Nine, but before he can fire, Nine plants his feet and tosses the first Mog at his buddy.
The scout who fell overboard tries to climb out of the water and onto Marina’s patch of ice. That’s a mistake. A jagged icicle rises from the floe’s edge, impaling the Mogadorian. Before that Mog has even turned to ash, I use my telekinesis to tear the icicle through him and send it plunging into one of the Mogs on the boat. The final Mog, dagger drawn, charges at Nine, but he grabs the Mog by the wrist, twists backwards and stabs him through the eye with his own blade.
Just like that, it’s over. The whole fight lasted less than a minute. Even as dysfunctional as we seem right now, we can still kill the hell out of some Mogs.
‘Now that was refreshing!’ Nine yells, grinning at me from the other boat.
I hear splashing from over my shoulder and turn around just in time to see Dale swimming frantically through the swamp water. He must have jumped overboard, and now he’s dog-paddling away from us as fast as his scrawny arms and drunkenness will allow.
‘Where are you going, idiot?’ I shout after him.
Dale reaches a muddy outcropping of roots and pulls himself on to it, gasping for breath. He stares at me and the others with wide, wild eyes.
‘You people are freaks!’ he screams.
‘That’s not very nice,’ Nine says, laughing, as he carefully makes his way back on to Dale’s boat, the ice floe Marina created already beginning to melt in the Florida heat.
‘What about your boat?’ I shout to Dale. ‘You gonna swim back to Trapper’s?’
He squints at me. ‘I’ll figure something out that don’t involve mutant powers, thank you very much.’
I sigh and raise my hand, intending to telekinetically drag Dale’s stupid ass back on to his boat, but Marina touches my shoulder and stops me.
‘Let him go,’ she says.
‘But we need him to find the base,’ I reply.
‘We’re close enough,’ Marina says, shaking her head. ‘And besides –’
‘Uh, holy shit,’ Nine interrupts, shielding his eyes and staring up at the sky.
‘I think we can just follow that thing,’ Marina finishes.
The day suddenly gets very dark. I look up as a shadow passes overhead, cutting off the limited light that was squeezing through the swamp’s canopy. Through the leaves, all I can see is the armor-plated hide of a Mogadorian ship as it begins to descend. It’s nothing like the dinky saucer-style crafts that I was able to knock out of the sky with a few well-placed lightning bolts. This ship is enormous, the size of an aircraft carrier, ferocious gun turrets protruding from its belly. The local birds squawk and take flight, darting away from this terrifying giant.
Instinctively, I reach out and grab Nine and Marina, turning the three of us invisible. A boat of Mogadorians is one thing. I don’t think we’re ready for something this big. The warship above us doesn’t care, though. It doesn’t notice us. To a ship that size, we’re as insignificant as the mosquitoes. As it passes, gliding above the swampland and gradually allowing light to re-enter, I feel like I’ve shrunk, like I’m small again.
Like I’m a child.
And then I remember that last day on Lorien. The nine of us and our Cêpans running for the ship that would take us to Earth. The screams all around us, the heat of fire from the city, blaster fire hissing through the air. I remember looking up into the night sky and seeing ships just like the one passing over us, blotting out the stars, the
ir turrets blazing, their cargo doors falling open to let loose hordes of blood-hungry Piken. Above us, I realize, is a Mogadorian warship. It’s what they will use to take Earth once and for all.
‘They’re here,’ I say, the breath nearly sucked out of me. ‘It’s starting.’
7
Gradually, the suburbs outside Washington, D.C. start to change. The houses become bigger and farther apart, until eventually they aren’t visible from the road at all. Outside the van windows are immaculately maintained meadows or miniature parks where the trees are spaced at obsessively equal intervals, designed to keep the houses behind them hidden from prying eyes. The side streets branching off from the main road all have prestigious-sounding names like Oaken Crest Way or Goldtree Boulevard, all of them protected by severe PRIVATE PROPERTY signs.
In the backseat, Sam whistles. ‘I can’t believe they live out here. Like rich people.’
‘No kidding,’ I reply, my hands sweating on the steering wheel. I was thinking the same thing as Sam but don’t really feel like talking about it, worried that I won’t be able to keep the jealousy out of my voice. I’ve spent my entire life on the run, dreaming about living in places like this – stable, quiet places. And here are the Mogs, carving out a normal life for their trueborn upper class, living the high life on a planet they’re only looking to exploit and destroy.
‘The grass is always greener,’ Malcolm says.
‘They do not appreciate it, if that’s any consolation,’ Adam says quietly, the first words he’s spoken since we started on these last few miles to Ashwood Estates, his former home. ‘They are taught not to enjoy something unless they can possess it.’
‘What’s that mean, exactly?’ Sam asks. ‘Like, if a Mogadorian went to the park …?’
‘ “One takes no satisfaction from that which one cannot hold,” ’ Adam recites, suppressing a sneer when he finishes the quotation. ‘That is from Setrákus Ra’s Great Book. A Mogadorian wouldn’t care about your park, Sam, not unless the trees were his to chop down.’
