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My legs start shaking under the table. I hardly listen after he mentions the tenth Elder. I remember that from Crayton’s letter. He said my father was obsessed with the fact that our family once had an Elder. Could that have been Setrákus Ra?
‘You’re crazy,’ I say. ‘And you’re a liar.’
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‘I am neither of those things,’ he replies, patiently. ‘I am a realist. A futurist. I altered my genetics to become more like them, so they would accept me. In return for their fealty, I helped their population grow. I brought them back from the brink of extinction. Joining the Mogadorians gave me a chance to continue the experiments that so frightened the Loric. Now, my work is almost finished. Soon, all life in the universe – Mogadorian, human, even what’s left of the Loric – will be improved under my gently guiding hand.’
‘You didn’t improve life on Lorien,’ I snap back. ‘You killed them all.’
‘They opposed progress,’ Setrákus Ra states, like the death of a whole planet is nothing.
‘You’re sick.’
I’m not afraid to talk back to him. I know that he won’t hurt me – not yet, at least. He’s too vain for that, wants too badly to convert another Loric to the cause. He wants things to be just like in my nightmare. Since I woke up here, he’s had a team of female Mogadorians attending to me. They dressed me in this long, black formal gown, very similar to the one I was wearing in my vision. It itches like crazy, and I have to keep tugging at the neckline.
I stare openly at his hideous face, hating myself for trying to find some resemblance. His head is bulbous and pale, covered in intricate Mogadorian tattoos; his eyes are empty and black, just like the Mogs; his teeth are filed down and sharp. If I look hard enough, I can almost see the Loric cast to his features, like crumbling architecture buried beneath the paleness and gross Mog artwork.
Setrákus Ra looks up from his food, meeting my gaze. Facing him head-on still gives me a chill and I have to force myself not to turn away.
‘Eat,’ he says again. ‘You need your strength.’
I hesitate for a moment, not sure how far I should push my insubordination, but also really not wanting to sample the Mog version of sushi. I make a point of dropping my fork so that it clatters loudly against the side of my plate. It echoes in the high-ceilinged room – Setrákus Ra’s private dining area – which is only slightly more furnished than the other cold rooms aboard the Anubis. The walls are covered in paintings of Mogadorians bravely charging into combat. The ceiling is open, providing a breathtaking view of Earth, the planet imperceptibly rotating below us.
‘Do not push me, girl,’ Setrákus Ra growls. ‘Do as you’re told.’
I push my plate away from me. ‘I’m not hungry.’
He studies me, a condescending look in his eyes, like a parent trying to show a bratty child how patient they can be.
‘I can put you back to sleep and feed you through a tube, if you’d prefer. Perhaps you’d be better mannered when I next woke you, once the war was won,’ he says. ‘But then we wouldn’t be able to talk. You wouldn’t be able to enjoy your grandfather’s victory firsthand. And you wouldn’t be able to entertain your futile notions of escape.’
I swallow hard. I know we’ll be going down to Earth eventually. Setrákus Ra isn’t going to have his warships orbit Earth for a while and then float peacefully away. There’s going to be an invasion. I’ve been telling myself that once we land I’d have a chance to run for it. Obviously, Setrákus Ra knows that I’d rather die than be his prisoner or his co-ruler or whatever he’s got in mind. But, from the smug look on his face, he doesn’t seem to care. Maybe he thinks he can brainwash me before we return to Earth.
‘How am I supposed to eat with your nasty face right there?’ I ask him, hoping to see his self-satisfied look falter. ‘It’s not exactly appetizing.’
Setrákus Ra stares at me like he’s trying to decide whether to leap across the table and throttle me. After a moment, he reaches to the side of his chair where his cane is propped. Ornately carved from a shimmering golden metal with an ominous black eye on the handle, it’s the same cane I saw Setrákus Ra use during the fight at Dulce Base. I brace myself for an attack.
‘The Eye of Thaloc,’ Setrákus Ra says, noticing me eyeing the staff. ‘Like Earth, it will one day be part of your Inheritance.’
Before I can ask a follow-up question, the obsidian eye in the cane’s handle flashes. I flinch, but it quickly becomes clear that I’m not in any danger. Instead, it’s Setrákus Ra who begins to convulse. Bands of red and purple light project from the Eye of Thaloc and scan over his body. Although I don’t exactly know how, I can sense energy moving from the cane into Setrákus Ra. He writhes and contorts as his skin peels away from his body, expanding outward and shifting, like a bubble forming in candlewax.
When it’s over, Setrákus Ra looks human. Actually, he looks like a movie star. He’s assumed the form of a handsome older guy in his mid-forties, with immaculately arranged salt-and-pepper hair, soulful blue eyes and just a modest amount of stubble. He’s tall, but no longer intimidatingly so, and he’s wearing a stylish blue suit and pressed dress shirt, casually open at the collar. Of his previous appearance, only the three Loric pendants remain, their cobalt jewels matching his shirt.
‘Better?’ he asks, his usual scratchy voice replaced by this man’s smooth baritone.
‘What …?’ I look at him, dumbfounded. ‘Who are you supposed to be?’
‘I chose this form for the humans,’ he explains. ‘Our research shows they’re naturally drawn to middle-aged Caucasian men of these specifications. Apparently, they find them leaderly and trustworthy.’
‘Why …’ I try to gather my thoughts. ‘What do you mean, it’s for the humans?’
Setrákus Ra gestures towards my plate. ‘Eat and I will answer your questions. That’s not unreasonable, is it? I believe the humans call it quid pro quo.’
I look down at my plate and the pale blob waiting for me there. I think about Six and Nine and the rest of the Garde and wonder what they would do in my situation. It seems like Setrákus Ra wants to spill his guts, so I should probably let him. Maybe while he’s trying to subtly win me over, he’ll let slip the secret to beating the Mogadorians. If that even exists. Either way, taking a bite of the boiled slug on my plate seems like a small price to pay if it means gathering some important information. I shouldn’t think of my situation as being held prisoner; it’s more like I’m on a mission behind enemy lines.
I’m a freaking spy.
I pick up my knife and fork, cut a small square off the edge of the meat and plop it into my mouth. There’s hardly any taste at all, it’s almost like chewing a wadded-up ball of notebook paper. It’s the texture that really bothers me – the way the meat starts to fizz and melt as soon as it touches my tongue, breaking down so quickly that I don’t even really chew. I can’t help but think of the way Mogadorians disintegrate when they’re killed and have to stop myself from gagging.
‘It isn’t what you’re used to, but it’s the best the Anubis is equipped to produce,’ Setrákus Ra says, almost apologetically. ‘The food will improve once we’ve taken Earth.’
I ignore him, not really caring about the finer points of Mogadorian cuisine. ‘I ate, now answer my question.’
He inclines his head, looking charmed by my directness. ‘I chose this form because the humans will find it comforting. It’s what I will wear to accept surrender of their planet.’
I gape at him. ‘They’re not going to surrender to you.’
He smiles. ‘Of course they will. Unlike the Loric, who pointlessly fight against impossible odds, the humans have a rich history of subjugation. They appreciate demonstrations of superior force and will gladly accept the tenets of Mogadorian Progress. And those who don’t will perish.’
‘Mogadorian “Progress.” ’ I spit the words. ‘What are you even talking about? You’re going to make everyone like you? A mon –’
I don’t finish my question. I was going to call him a monster, but then I thought back to my vision. I callously ordered Six’s execution right in front of John, Sam and a crowd of people. What if something like Setrákus Ra is already lurking inside me?
‘I believe there was at least one question in all that vitriol,’ Setrákus Ra says. He maint
ains his infuriating smile, made even worse now that he’s wearing a handsome human face, and gestures towards my plate. I shovel down another bite of the horrible food. He clears his throat like he’s about to give a speech.
‘We share the same blood, granddaughter, which is why you will be spared the fate of those Garde who foolishly oppose me. Because, unlike them, you are capable of change,’ Setrákus Ra explains. ‘I may have been Loric once, but over the centuries I have made myself into something better. Once I control the Earth, I will have the power necessary to change the lives of billions. All they need do is accept Mogadorian Progress. Then my work will at last bear fruit.’
I squint at him. ‘Power? From where?’
Setrákus Ra smiles at me, touching the pendants that hang around his neck. ‘You will see when the time is right, child. Then, you will understand.’
‘I already understand,’ I reply. ‘I understand that you’re a disgusting, genocidal freak who gave himself a bad Mogadorian makeover.’
Setrákus Ra’s smile flickers and for a moment I wonder if I’ve pushed my luck too far. He sighs and drags his fingers across his throat, the skin of his assumed form parting to reveal the thick purple scar around his throat.
‘Pittacus Lore gave me this when he tried to kill me,’ he says, his voice cold and level. ‘I was one of them, but he and the other Elders cast me out. Banished me from Lorien because of my ideas.’
‘What? Did they not want to elect you supreme ruler or something?’
Setrákus Ra passes his hand across his throat once again and the scar tissue disappears.
‘They already had a ruler,’ Setrákus Ra replies, his voice dropping lower, as if the memory makes him angry. ‘They just refused to admit it.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
This time, he doesn’t make me take a bite of food. He’s on a roll now. ‘My dear, the Elders were ruled by the planet itself. Lorien made their choices for them. Who would be Garde and who would be Cêpan. They believed we should live as caretakers and let nature determine our fates. I disagreed. The Legacies granted by Lorien are simply a resource, like anything else. Would you let the fish in the ocean dictate who is fit to eat them, or allow the iron in the ground to decide when to be forged? Of course not.’
