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“What about when I can’t see the person or we’re separated by a long distance? How do you do that?”
“Did you ever . . .” Ella pauses, struggling to put her thoughts into words. “Say you’re in a house and you know someone’s in another room. You kind of know, instinctually, how loud you need to yell to make them hear you, right?”
“I guess.”
“Think of it like that,” Ella says. “The better you know the person, the more familiar their mind is to you, the longer your range with them will grow. You’ll figure it out with practice. Sometimes it feels more natural than regular talking. At least to me.”
I’m not sure what else to say. I got what I wanted and more than I bargained for. I pick the atlas up from the table and tuck it under my arm.
“Thank you, Ella,” I say, hoping it doesn’t sound too cold, not sure if I could muster anything warmer.
“You’re welcome.”
I glance out the window. The sun is starting to get low in the sky, the light turning a muted gray.
What Legacies do I still need?
Five’s Externa and Adam’s seismic Legacy would be good; Eight’s teleportation would be incredible. If I had the time, maybe I could meditate on when I used the Loralite stones before, try to remember that feeling and figure out a way to reproduce it using my Ximic.
If I had the time. It’s already getting late.
I head back towards the elevator. Back down into the depths of Patience Creek.
Invisibility. Flight. Telepathy.
These are the tools I’ve got.
They’re enough.
Enough to take on a warship.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE WAITING HAS TO BE THE WORST PART.
The sun has set, not that you’d be able to tell down here in our latest subterranean hideout. Patience Creek still buzzes with activity; soldiers working on logistics and training against observed Mog tactics, researchers along with Sam and Malcolm trying to puzzle out the cloaking device, officers coordinating a worldwide war effort. Adam’s offered all the input he can and is now downstairs, helping to monitor the Mog communications.
Right now none of that involves me.
“Nine’s penthouse, that was really the best,” I say, pulling my hair back while I stare at an off-white wall. “I don’t think I really appreciated how great those windows were.”
Marina laughs softly. She sits across the table from me in one of Patience Creek’s small lounges. There’s a half-eaten microwave burrito, now cold, between us. The food selection here is really lacking, and neither of us has much of an appetite.
Marina smiles at me. “You remember that dinner we had before we went off to Florida? All of us together?”
“Yeah. Right before everything went to hell.”
“That was a good night,” Marina says with a quiet laugh. “We should’ve, I don’t know, taken pictures or something. Like normal people would’ve done.”
Marina’s smile slowly fades. I can tell that she’s thinking about Eight. I try to lighten the mood. “God, I remember being grossed out by that penthouse because it was Nine’s and he used to strut around with his shirt off like he was some hot-shit playboy. In retrospect, Nine overcompensating sure beats out an abandoned Mog Stepford community and this grungy basement.”
Marina laughs again. She reaches across the table and puts her hand on top of mine. I cross my eyes at her. I feel tired and wrung out—maybe that’s why I’m getting a little punchy and reminiscing.
“Six,” Marina says softly. “Can I just tell you . . . I never made many friends before, while I was staying in the monastery. It was lonely.”
“Okay?”
“And then you came along. You . . .” I make a face as Marina’s eyes get watery. “You’ve been there for me in the worst times, Six. You always made me laugh or propped me up. Sometimes you literally carried me. I just wanted to tell you that you’re pretty much my best friend.”
I blow a stray curl of hair out of my face. “Oh, goddamn, Marina, don’t start talking like that. It’s bad luck.”
Marina chuckles. “It needed to be said.”
“Yeah, no it didn’t,” I reply, squeezing her hand. “But back at you anyway.”
Someone clears their throat, and both of us turn towards the doorway. John stands there, a heavy, leather-bound atlas with yellowed pages tucked under his arm. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his shoulders are slumped. I don’t really know how else to expect him to look after what’s gone down recently.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey yourself,” I reply. “Where you been?”
John looks longingly at a free chair by our table. Something in him won’t let him relax, not even for a few minutes.
“Working some stuff out,” he says. “I’m going to see Lawson. Wouldn’t mind some backup.”
I exchange a look with Marina, and we both stand up. “Sure,” I say. “You just going to socialize or . . . ?”
“We’ve wasted enough time here,” John answers quickly. “We need to start making moves.”
I nod in agreement, and the three of us exit the lounge and start navigating the endless hallways.
“Should we gather up the others?” Marina asks.
“I don’t want to disturb Sam and Malcolm while they’re working,” John replies. “Nine isn’t the most diplomatic, and Adam probably wouldn’t be welcome in this context.”
“What about Ella?”
John’s mouth tightens. “She doesn’t need to be here for this.”
There’s an edge in John’s tone. “You guys have your talk?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“Can we just leave it alone, Six?”
I shoot Marina a look. She subtly shakes her head, as if to tell me that I should drop the matter. I take her advice, and we walk on in silence.
Lawson has set up his office in a part of the complex referred to as the nerve center. We pass by rooms filled with communications officers coordinating with other governments around the world. It’s noisy; there are about a dozen languages being spoken. Around the world, the Mog warships still haven’t attacked. They haven’t even moved, except for the Anubis taking Setrákus Ra to West Virginia and the ship we lured to Niagara Falls. From the urgency down here, it’s clear the humans are utilizing every second of this lull to prepare.
The twins, Caleb and Christian, stand guard before a closed door at the end of the hall. Marina hasn’t had a chance to meet these two weirdos yet. As we arrive, she puts on her gentlest smile and extends her hand to the blank-faced one that I think is Christian.
“Hi, I’m Marina,” she says. “I’ve heard you received Legacies. Quite amazing for it to happen to both of you. If you’d like to talk about it—”
Christian just stares at her and makes no move to take her hand, like he doesn’t even understand what she’s saying. Caleb quickly interjects himself. He shakes Marina’s hand loosely, like it’s covered in germs.
“Uh, we’re good, thanks,” he says brusquely, then looks at John. “General Lawson sent for you hours ago.”
“I haven’t had a lot of free time,” John replies. “Is he in or what?”
Caleb steps aside with a grunt, and a moment later Christian does, too, maintaining his cold stare the entire time. As we follow John into Lawson’s office, Marina gives me a look.
“What’s with them?” she whispers.
“No idea,” I reply. “I guess not everyone who got Legacies is as charming as Sam.”
Marina smirks at me. We fall silent as we look around Lawson’s office. It’s a pretty ordinary setup, a beat-up desk where Lawson sits in a lumbar-support chair, a few folding chairs positioned in front of that, a little table against one wall with a drip machine currently brewing a fresh pot from freeze-dried, army-issued coffee crystals.
What really catches my attention, the reason why I’m sure Lawson moved down here, is the bank of monitors that cover t
he wall behind his desk. The screens feature all kinds of things; some show grainy footage of warships that must come direct from cameras in the occupied cities, others are tuned to the few news networks still able to broadcast and some are set to security footage of Patience Creek itself.
Lawson turns away from this array of information as soon as we enter. He stands up, brushes a hand down the front of his uniform and smiles congenially.
“Ah, hello there,” he says, taking in the three of us. All our looks are varying degrees of confrontational, so he first addresses Marina. “I’m glad to see you up and around, young lady.”
