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‘What the hell was that thing?’ Walker asks, incredulous.
‘The Mogs aren’t the only ones with kick-ass weaponry,’ Nine says, picking up the harmless-looking stone strand from where it landed on the floor.
‘Don’t get any ideas,’ I say to Walker when I catch her craning her neck to get a look at the stones. ‘Our technology isn’t for sale.’
Walker frowns at me. ‘Yeah, well, judging by that bullshit with the gloves, you don’t know how to work it anyway.’
From the broken doorway up ahead, I hear the droning of a television. It’s turned to cable news, I think, some talking head rambling on about stock prices. Other than that, the hallway is totally quiet. There isn’t any sign of more Mogadorians. Even so, we advance cautiously towards the penthouse door.
Wary of an ambush, I nudge the door with my telekinesis before we get too close. It comes off the hinges easily and falls into the penthouse with a thud. The living room inside is dark, all the curtains drawn, and lit only by the blue glow of the television.
‘Come on in,’ a gravelly voice calls from inside. ‘There’s no one in here who can hurt you.’
‘That’s Sanderson,’ Walker whispers.
I exchange a quick look with Nine. He shrugs and waves towards the door. I go first, Nine right behind me and Walker bringing up the rear.
The first thing I notice is a damp, moldy smell in the hotel room. It smells like rot with an undercurrent of minty, old-man joint cream. A map of New York City is spread across the table in the suite’s dining area, notes in Mogadorian scribbled at various locations. Next to the table is a knocked-over chair, as if someone got up in a hurry. There are also Mogadorian cannons propped up against one wall along with some dark canvas backpacks of gear – I notice a laptop, a few cell phones and a thick leather-bound book.
None of that interests me as much as the old man seated at the edge of the suite’s slept-in king-size bed. He watches the TV through the open bedroom doorway, maybe too weak to walk himself into the penthouse’s living room.
‘Goddamn, dude,’ Nine exclaims, upon seeing Sanderson. ‘What is wrong with you?’
I’ve seen a lot of pictures of Bud Sanderson over the last few days. The first was on They Walk Among Us, Sanderson as an old man with thinning white hair, jowls and a paunch. On the website, in a tabloid-style story I didn’t think too much about, Mark James accused Sanderson of using some kind of Mogadorian anti-aging treatment. The next time I saw Sanderson was in Agent Walker’s file, having lunch with a disguised Setrákus Ra, hale and hearty, silver hair full and slicked back, looking like he might jog a few miles after his Cobb salad.
The Sanderson in front of me doesn’t look like either of those pictures. Nine and I walk into the bedroom to get a closer look, Walker lingering behind. The secretary of defense is a frail old man, his hunched body wrapped up in a puffy hotel robe. The right side of his face looks saggy and collapsed – his eye socket droops, and his jawline disappears beneath folds of loose skin. His white hair is badly thinned, a comb-over barely managing to hide a smattering of age spots. He smiles at us – or maybe it’s a grimace – his teeth yellow, gums receding. In the open neck of his robe and along his forearms, I notice some prominent veins that are discolored black.
‘Number Four and Number Nine,’ Sanderson says, pointing a shaky finger at me and then Nine. He doesn’t seem offended at all by Nine’s grossed-out reaction, doesn’t even seem to have noticed. ‘Your pictures have been crossing my desk for years. Furtive shots from security cameras and the like. I practically watched you boys grow up.’
Sanderson sounds like a reminiscent, doddering grandfather. I’m completely taken aback. I’d been expecting a sellout politician to try hitting me with talking points on Mogadorian Progress. This guy barely looks capable of getting up from his bed, much less giving a speech in front of the UN.
‘And you …’ Sanderson tilts his head to get a look at Walker. ‘You’re one of mine, aren’t you?’
‘Special Agent Karen Walker,’ she replies, stepping into the doorway. ‘Not one of yours. I serve humanity now, sir.’
‘Well, that’s nice,’ Sanderson says dismissively. He doesn’t seem at all interested in her. The way his beady, black eyes settle on Nine and me, like we’re his long-lost relatives gathered around his deathbed, makes me seriously uncomfortable. Even Nine has slipped into an awkward silence.
I notice a small kit on the bed next to Sanderson. It contains a few sleek syringes filled with a dark liquid that reminds me vaguely of Piken blood.
I take a step towards him, my voice low. ‘What did they do to you?’
‘Nothing I didn’t ask for,’ Sanderson replies, sadly. ‘I wish you boys would have found me sooner. Now it’s too late.’
‘Like hell,’ Nine says.
‘Even if you kill me, it won’t make any difference,’ Sanderson rasps, resignedly.
‘We’re not here to kill you,’ I reply. ‘I don’t know what they’ve told you, what they’ve filled your mind and body with, but we’re not done fighting.’
‘Oh, but I am,’ Sanderson replies, and pulls a small handgun out of his robe’s front pocket. Before I can stop him, he holds the pistol next to his temple and pulls the trigger.
21
If I’d had time to think about it, I probably wouldn’t have been able to do it.
There’s about a millimeter of space between Bud Sanderson’s temple and the barrel of his gun. It’s in that space that I manage to stop the bullet, holding it there with my telekinesis. The precision required makes me grunt from exertion. Every muscle in my body is tensed, my fists clenched and toes curled. It’s like I flung my entire body into stopping that bullet.
I can’t believe I just did that. I’ve never done anything so precise before.
A ring-shaped burn from the pistol’s barrel forms on Sanderson’s temple, but otherwise his head is totally intact.
It takes until the pistol’s report stops echoing for the secretary of defense to realize his suicide attempt didn’t work. He blinks his watery eyes at me¸ not quite understanding why he’s still alive.
‘How –?’
Before Sanderson can pull the trigger again, Nine lunges forward and slaps the gun out of his hand. I exhal
e very slowly and allow my body to uncoil.
‘That’s not right,’ Sanderson says to me accusingly, his lower lip shaking as he rubs his wrist where Nine struck him. ‘Just let me die.’
‘Seriously,’ Walker interjects, her hands tightening around her own gun. ‘Why’d you stop him? Could’ve solved all our problems right there.’
‘It wouldn’t have solved anything,’ I say, shooting her a look as I let the bullet drop harmlessly on to Sanderson’s unmade bed.
‘He’s right,’ Sanderson says to Walker, his shoulders slumping. ‘Killing me won’t change anything. But keeping me alive is simply cruel.’
‘You don’t get to decide when you check out, old man,’ I tell Sanderson. ‘When we win this war, we’ll let the people of Earth decide how they deal with traitors.’
Sanderson chuckles dryly. ‘The optimism of youth.’
I crouch down to look him in the face. ‘There’s still time to redeem yourself,’ I say. ‘To do something of value.’
Sanderson raises an eyebrow, and his eyes seem to focus up a bit. But then the right side of his mouth droops and he has to wipe away a blob of drool with the cuff of his robe. Looking utterly defeated, Sanderson averts his eyes.
‘No,’ he says quietly. ‘I think not.’
Nine sighs from boredom and picks up the kit of syringes laid out next to Sanderson. He studies the tar-colored sludge inside the injector for a moment, then waves it in Sanderson’s face.
‘What is this shit they’re giving you, huh?’ Nine asks. ‘This what you traded the planet for?’
Sanderson peers longingly at the vials but then weakly shoves them away.
‘They healed me,’ Sanderson explains. ‘More than that. They made me young again.’
‘And look at you now,’ Nine grunts. ‘Fresh as a daisy, right?’
‘You know their leader has lived for centuries,’ Sanderson counters, his eyes swinging wildly between me and Nine. ‘Of course you do. He promised us that. He promised immortality and power.’
