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After that, Marina stands right in front of me. She reaches out and takes my face in her hands. “Thank you, John,” she says quietly. The tears haven’t dried on her cheeks. I brush a streak away.
She kisses me. I don’t know what it means.
Maybe nothing.
Marina blushes, smiles at me and slowly pulls away. I smile back. This Himalayan cave is suddenly a lot warmer.
Maybe something.
In the center of the cavern, I pull back the tarp to show Marina what I’ve spent the last year working on. Carved from trees I cut down off the mountainside, it’s a table that uses the Loralite stone as a base. It is huge and circular and modeled off my memories of the table in the center of the Elders’ Chamber on Lorien. Like the pendants, I’ve used my Lumen to burn the Loric symbol for Unity into the wood.
Eventually, the others will come. Some of them only for a visit, some of them for a longer stay. One day, I hope, this will become a place where great ideas are exchanged. A place kept safe from the corruption and pettiness of governments. Where the safety of Earth and the happiness of its people are assured.
There are threats still facing this planet—ones that need a united front of Loric, humans and even Mogs. We will gather here to solve those problems—us, the Garde, our old allies and ones we haven’t even met yet.
In the meantime, we have more than enough things to figure out, together and apart. Finding our places in this new world, making amends with those we’ve hurt, living up to our potential—these are the truly scary things.
There is one difference between the table I built here and the table used by the Elders. I didn’t carve nine specific spaces in the wood. There’s no spot for Loridas, or Setrákus or Pittacus. There aren’t even nine chairs. There’s as many as we need there to be, more than enough room. And if it gets too crowded, we can squeeze.
I’m done with numbers.
EXCERPT FROM I AM NUMBER FOUR: THE LOST FILES: HUNT FOR THE GARDE
DISCOVER WHAT HAPPENED BEHIND ENEMY LINES—FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF THE MOGADORIANS!
CHAPTER ONE
THE LORIC MAY CALL IT THEIR “SANCTUARY,” but today it’s a war zone.
Their people will die here.
Killing the last of the Garde has always been on the forefront of Mogadorian minds. I know I’ve thought much about it, at least. Not for my own vanity or sense of accomplishment, but because I know that it is the greatest way I can serve Beloved Leader. To please him.
That’s all I want, all I need out of life.
There was a time when I thought I was close to receiving Setrákus Ra’s favor. I’d worked my way through the ranks, showing my superiors how mercilessly I could deal with any who opposed us. How swiftly I could turn the vatborn into well-trained killing squads. Eventually I was given command of an entire platoon in our West Virginia base, where I could show Beloved Leader once and for all that I was his most faithful, most capable commander.
But then I failed him. A few of the Garde scum under my watch escaped. I was disgraced, and given the choice to be put to death for my failures or restationed in Mexico, tasked with finding a way into an impenetrable Loric site. The decision seemed like an easy one. I chose the latter, hoping that I would be able to make up for my mistakes. Instead, I failed him again.
But that’s all going to change. Beloved Leader is here now, and I will show him that I am worthy of being his disciple. He will witness me on the battlefield and see that I am the embodiment of what he preaches in the Great Book. I will show no mercy, spare no enemy.
“Protect Beloved Leader!” I shout as I run from my cover in the jungle, leading a small group of vatborn and trueborn soldiers I’ve rescued from Garde imprisonment. As we cross the battlefield, I see Number Six. One of my eyes is swollen shut thanks to the Loric bitch punching me while I was tied up earlier. She should have taken my trigger fingers—killed me if she was smart. I fire at her back. She goes down. I bare my teeth. I will make sure her death is slow and agonizing.
I will make Beloved Leader proud.
We charge forward. Ahead of us, our savior stands in a crater, holding the Garde called Marina in the air with his extraordinary powers. He bashes her into the ground below over and over again until her body goes limp. The Loric and their allies may have destroyed the pipeline Setrákus Ra created to harvest the Loralite, but they’re being beaten down, reminded of our superiority.
This is war. This is glory. This is Mogadorian Progress.
We continue our surge forward amid blaster fire from every direction. I reach Beloved Leader too late. One of the Loric allies—a human male with the audacity to use our own weapons against us—manages a lucky shot that scorches our infallible commander’s ear. Had I been just a little faster on my feet, I could have thrown myself in front of the blast, happily dying to protect Beloved Leader from even the slightest pain. By the time I get to his side, he’s already thrown Marina’s broken body at the boy, sending them both rolling out of sight.
Up close, I can see blood dripping from a few wounds on our commander’s body. He leans on a sword.
“Beloved Leader,” one of my fellow Mogadorians says, stepping forward and placing a hand on the commander’s arm as if to help him stand.
Setrákus Ra responds by placing a palm on his underling’s head. There’s a half second when the soldier looks like he’s in ecstasy, like he’s been blessed. Then the hand on his head clenches into a fist, the trooper’s skull caving in like a piece of rotten fruit before turning to dust.
Our Beloved Leader needs no help. These injuries are nothing to him.
“Back to the ship,” he growls. “We’ll make them feel our power.”
“You heard our glorious leader,” I shout. “Hold nothing back!”
Weapon fire continues to fill the air, coming from all sides, even from the Anubis itself. There are painful wounds on my hands from getting too close to the force field around the Sanctuary, but I don’t let this slow me down. I shoot constantly. I know Beloved Leader doesn’t need my help, but I show him my loyalty by being front and center as we march out of the crater, taking any harm meant for him. The other troops fall in line too, forming a ring around him as we move.
We will serve him until we are nothing but dust.
“I will destroy every speck of life for miles,” Beloved Leader growls as we start up the ship’s ramp. “Everything beneath us will burn, and once we’ve wiped out the Loric and their allies, I’ll dig the remnants of the Sanctuary from the ground myself.”
“Not even their bones will remain,” I say.
We’re near the top of the ramp when something in the air changes.
Wind hits us, a hurricane gale that must be the work of the Garde. Debris—rocks, metal, biting sand—slams into us, causing me to cover my face with my arms as I take a few steps backwards, trying
to brace myself.
Beloved Leader stands strong, though. He turns to face the wind and holds a hand out, palm open. The wind fighting against us dies down, but I can feel some other force in the air as he grins. He is so powerful, his might driving our enemies back. The battlefield of the Sanctuary explodes with shrapnel and chunks of stones.
This is what our victory looks like.
Beside me, Beloved Leader laughs.
I see the projectile too late—I am always too late. It’s hardly a glint of metal in the air before it hits him; a piece of the broken pipeline is buried in Beloved Leader’s chest.
The sound of his laughter turns into a gasp as he doubles over, stumbling back.
“No!” I scream, rushing back to his side.
In that moment, despite the blasters continuing to sound around us, there is only me and Setrákus Ra, huddled together in the entryway of the Anubis, my body blocking him from further attacks. The rest of the world—the universe—ceases to exist.
He looks down at the shrapnel in his chest and then up at me.
“Inside,” he grunts, dark blood dripping over his lips.
I move as quickly as I can, shouting to the others to help me. We pull him into his ship. We’re barely clear when I slam a hand down on the controls that close the loading door, shielding us.
Chaos breaks out in the loading area as all the troops start shouting at once. One of the low-ranking trueborn steps forward.
“We should pull the pipe out, right?” he asks, a little uncertain.
“You won’t touch him,” I say.
“If I were him, I’d want—”
“But you are not him.” I fire one shot directly into the soldier’s head. His augmentations begin to disintegrate before he hits the ground. The others back away. I am a trueborn commander, and even if my military record has been tarnished as of late, I’m likely the highest-ranking person in the docking bay.
