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“Lead with the carrot or the stick,” Lawson mutters.
“What kind of miracle could that monster work?” Marina asks.
“We know what his life’s work is,” I say. “We saw it in that vision.”
“The energy he stole from the Sanctuary,” John says quietly. “The process we saw in Ella’s vision, turning it into that black ooze of his. He must be back to that.”
“I don’t know what the hell all that means,” Lawson interrupts. “But it sounds like our time is running out.”
Adam holds up a hand as Phiri Dun-Ra’s speech reaches a crescendo. His mouth hangs open, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.
“She claims . . . she claims that, thanks to the wisdom of Beloved Leader, she’s been granted Legacies,” Adam says, the sound of Phiri Dun-Ra’s happy laughter almost drowning him out.
“Bullshit,” I say. “Even assuming that’s true, whatever they’ve got are not Legacies.”
“We saw him do it,” Marina says, a low note of dread in her voice. “The people working with him on that machine, he’d given them telekinesis.”
“Those people looked sick. Monstrous.” That observation comes from Caleb, the first words he’s said since we came down here. I look over at him, and he’s staring down at the backs of his hands as if looking to see if there’s anything running through the veins there. His brother, Christian, meanwhile, remains completely still and silent.
“He’s had hundreds of years to perfect his experiment,” John says. “He only needed access to more of the raw materials.”
“And we unlocked it for him,” I say, shaking my head.
A new voice comes over the broadcast. Not a voice at all, actually—a scream. An anguished cry from what sounds like a boy being tortured. Everyone in the room falls silent as Phiri Dun-Ra resumes speaking over the screaming, her tone upbeat and chipper.
“What in the hell is that?” Lawson asks.
Adam swallows hard. “She says it’s a Garde they captured in Mexico City. A human. They’re extracting his Legacies. Killing him.”
“Turn it off,” Marina says, looking like she’s going to be sick.
Adam turns first to me, then at John. Both of us nod. This kind of thing can’t go unanswered.
“Do it,” John says.
Adam reaches forward but doesn’t turn off the broadcast. Instead, he picks up a microphone and opens up a channel.
Lawson starts forward to stop Adam, and the twins follow suit; but John puts a hand on the older man’s chest, stopping him.
“Can they track our signal?” Lawson whispers with wide eyes.
“No,” John whispers back. “He already took care of that. We’re a ghost.”
Lawson doesn’t seem entirely convinced. He shoots a look in Noto’s direction. The agent nods curtly, affirming what John said.
Anyway, it’s too late. Adam’s already started talking.
“Phiri Dun-Ra is a liar,” Adam announces in English, though he amps up the harshness in his voice, utilizing that guttural Mogadorian accent. He must be using English for our benefit—so that Lawson knows he’s not giving away any secrets. “What she’s telling you is only meant to advance her own power.”
The screaming cuts off. A few confused voices answer in Mogadorian. Phiri Dun-Ra’s voice carries over them all.
“Is that you, Adamus?” she asks, laughing. “How did you get on this channel, little boy?”
Adam ignores her, presses on. “My name is Adamus Sutekh, son of General Andrakkus Sutekh. I faced my father in single combat and defeated him. I pried his blade out of his dead hand, and I put it to its intended use. I used it to kill a Loric. A Loric who called himself Setrákus Ra.”
Now there’s shouting. Outraged cries in Mogadorian from a dozen different voices. I can’t help but smirk at the chaos and panic created by just a few words.
Phiri Dun-Ra screeches to be heard over the others. “These are the fabrications of a disgraced trueborn! A traitor to our race!”
“Then let Beloved Leader answer me!” Adam shouts back. “Perhaps he can speak through the hole I put in his chest! Phiri Dun-Ra knows the truth, brothers and sisters, and she now seeks to rule us through the same lies that Setrákus Ra used for centuries. Do not let it happen!”
“These are blasphemies—!” shrieks Phiri.
“Let him answer, then!” Adam yells again. “Let the immortal Setrákus Ra answer, if he still draws breath.”
For a moment, all lines go quiet, waiting for something to happen.
Only silence from Phiri Dun-Ra.
“You will pay,” she says finally, her voice filled with hate. “You will pay for your lack of faith.”
There’s a sharp beep, the sound of her cutting off communication. Immediately, the dozens of warship captains who have been listening to this entire exchange begin to shout at each other.
Adam turns off his mic and swivels around to face us.
“Now,” he says. “We let them kill each other.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SYDNEY GETS IT THE WORST.
The warship captain there begins a full-scale bombardment of the city a few hours after Adam interrupted Phiri Dun-Ra’s speech. This captain claims the destruction is in honor of Beloved Leader, a fiery sacrifice for Setrákus Ra’s death. Adam explains that he’s showing off; the captain wants to look good in case Setrákus Ra is alive, and position himself for leadership if he’s not.
Images of the opera house in flames, the bridge behind it collapsing, are broadcast on the world’s few remaining news channels. It’s hard to watch, knowing that our lie about Setrákus Ra caused this. Adam looks like he’s going to be sick. Lawson shakes his head, his lined face grim.
“Psychological warfare has costs,” he says matter-of-factly. I get the feeling he’d have a different outlook if this was an American city burning. “If it’s any consolation, my sources tell me that Sydney was mostly evacuated.”
“Mostly,” Adam repeats.
“Yes, mostly,” Lawson replies. “Collateral damage can’t always be avoided. It’s horrible, but you learn to live with it.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t have expected so much empathy from one of your kind.”
Adam eyes the general. “Right.”
I don’t say anything. I just make a mental note of the Mogadorian’s name. Rezza El-Doth. I add him to the list of Mogs that I’m going to kill.
It’s the middle of the night. The three of us—myself, Adam, Lawson—are the only ones still down in the monitoring room hours after Adam’s surprise broadcast. The others went to get some rest, something that I should probably be doing but don’t feel at all capable of. Instead, I slouch in a chair and listen as Adam robotically describes the various transmissions going out over the Mog comms. Next to me, Lawson keeps an eye on a tablet computer, monitoring reports from around the world.
“I admire the moxie it took for a stunt like that,” Lawson continues. “You had to know there’d be consequences. You did the math and calculated that the benefits outweighed the costs. Of course, if it hadn’t played out in our favor, we’d be having a different conversation, wouldn’t we?”
I glance at Lawson. He stares at me, appraising. Again I stay silent. He’s right, though. As soon as Adam told me about the dissension among the Mogs in Setrákus Ra’s absence, I knew we had to exploit it. Adam agreed. Like Lawson said, I knew there might be dangers.
I didn’t care.
Sydney went bad, but in other locations, Adam’s announcement had better effects.
In Beijing, where the Chinese army has been resisting the Mogadorians heavily and pursuing some pretty reckless counterattacks, the Mogs actually pulled their Skimmers back to the warship. The captain declared he wanted to hear from Setrákus Ra before he wasted any more of his vatborn on securing the city. No response has come from West Virginia, which means a reprieve for the Chinese.
Meanwhile, the warship captain in Moscow declared himself the new Beloved Leader. I gu
ess he got himself a big head after seeing how quickly the Russians complied with his occupation effort. This declaration didn’t sit well with the captain of the warship stationed in Berlin; he diverted his ship to attempt to assassinate the usurper.
The two warships met over Kazakhstan and started blowing each other apart. Luckily, this happened over the Kazakh Steppe, which is hardly populated. Because of the lack of eyes on the scene, reports out of the area are sketchy. We aren’t sure if they destroyed each other, fought to a stalemate, or if one of them came out victorious. There’s no bad result for us, though.
And, maybe best of all, the warship positioned over São Paulo simply left. It floated up, out of the atmosphere, and is apparently orbiting the moon. The ship has gone completely radio silent. No idea what’s going on with that guy.
The rest of the Mog fleet ignored Adam, choosing to believe Phiri Dun-Ra. Still, the cracks were beginning to show. They weren’t an unstoppable force. Three warships out of the fray, and we never left Patience Creek. Still twenty to go, but we’re making progress.
Yet something about this victory feels hollow to me. It isn’t satisfying. My hands are too clean.
With both Adam and me lost in thoughtful silence, Lawson continues to reflect on our success. “A strategic risk,” he says thoughtfully. “You boys would make fine generals one day.”
“I intend to do the rest of my fighting on the front lines,” I say, finally breaking my silence.
“Well, that’s a young man’s prerogative,” Lawson replies. He stands up and cracks his back. In the hours since we hijacked the Mogadorian discussion, things have calmed down. No new developments have come in for some time, just the usual status reports. I think our ploy has produced all the results it’s going to.
Lawson looks down at me. “It’s late. Or rather, it is now very early. I’m going to get some shut-eye before we mount this operation. You should do the same, John.”
I give the general a lazy salute, and he replies with a thin smile. The old man nods curtly to Adam and exits, leaving the two of us alone. Adam sits slumped in front of the console, his eyes bleary.
