The Fate of Ten

CHAPTER SIX

A HEAVY WEIGHT FALLS ACROSS MY LEGS, DRIVING the shrapnel sticking out of my thigh even deeper. It’s Phiri Dun-Ra. She has fresh lacerations on her face and arms, the results of her own improvised bomb. Her wrists and ankles are still bound by the ice manacles, but that hasn’t stopped her from throwing herself on top of me. I’m still stunned from the blast, so I don’t react as quickly as I should. Phiri headbutts me in the sternum as she worms her way across my body.

“Now you die, Loric trash,” she says maniacally, still giddy over the success of her booby trap.

I’m not sure what her plan is here—maybe to bite me to death or smother me with her body, but I’m not so out of sorts that either of those things is going to happen. With a quick burst of telekinesis, I swipe Phiri Dun-Ra off me. She tumbles through the dirt, rolling across glowing bits of scorched duffel bag. She tries to get herself onto her feet, screaming in frustration as her bonds get in the way.

She’s silenced when I kick her across the face as hard as I can. Phiri flops to the ground unconscious.

“Stay with me!”

It’s Marina’s voice that snaps me out of my rage or I’d probably kill Phiri right there. I spin around and see her bent over Adam.

“Is he . . . ?!”

I limp across the clearing, forgetting that there’s a six-inch piece of jagged steel protruding from my thigh. I ignore the pain. Adam’s in much worse shape than I am.

I stagger around the small hill of earth Adam was able to construct in the few seconds before the explosion. It absorbed a lot of the shrapnel, but not enough. The bomb still basically detonated right in front of him, so Adam took the brunt of the blast. He’s on his back now, Marina leaning over him, and I cringe at the amount of damage he’s taken. His entire midsection is blown open, like he’s been scooped out. He should’ve dived out of the way instead of standing there like a human shield. Stupid Mog, trying to be a hero.

Amazingly, Adam’s still conscious. He can’t speak; all the strength he can muster seems to be going into breathing. His eyes are wide and scared as he sucks in wet, rattling breaths. His hands, soaked with his blood, are curled into tight fists.

“I can do this, I can do this . . . ,” Marina repeats to herself, not hesitating at all as she lays her hands on Adam’s grisly wound. Looking over her shoulder, helpless, I realize how sadly familiar this situation must be for Marina. It’s like Eight all over again.

As Adam’s breathing becomes more and more ragged, I watch as his insides begin to knit themselves back together under Marina’s touch. And then something disturbing happens—there’s a crackle and hiss, like a fire starting, and a piece of Adam’s midsection briefly sparks before disintegrating into that familiar Mogadorian death ash.

Marina cries out in surprise, pulling her hands away.

“What the hell was that?” I ask, eyes wide.

“I don’t know!” Marina yells. “Something’s fighting me, Six. I’m afraid I’m hurting him.”

The second Marina’s healing stops, Adam’s still-open wound begins bleeding again. He’s getting pale. More pale than usual, even. His hand scrabbles through the dirt and gropes for Marina.

“Don’t . . . agh, don’t stop,” Adam manages to gurgle, and when he does I can see that there’s dark blood in his mouth. “Whatever happens . . . don’t stop.”

Steeling herself, Marina again presses down on Adam’s injury. She squeezes her eyes shut and concentrates, fresh sweat dripping down the sides of her dirt-smudged face. I’ve seen Marina heal a lot of injuries before, but this is definitely the most effort I’ve seen her expend. Adam’s body slowly begins to regenerate, until another section of his insides sparks and disintegrates, looking like the fuse of a bomb burning up inside him. When that’s over, though, the rest of him heals normally.

It takes a couple of minutes, but Marina finally gets Adam closed up. She falls backwards onto her butt, breathing like she’s just finished sprinting, her hands shaking. Adam remains on his back, running his fingers over the skin of his abdomen that minutes ago wasn’t there. Finally, he props himself up on an elbow and looks at Marina.

“Thank you,” he says, locking eyes with her, his face a mixture of amazement and gratitude.

“Don’t mention it,” Marina replies, catching her breath.

“Um, Marina . . . would you mind?” I gesture to the piece of metal still sticking out of my leg.

Marina groans from the exertion, but nods, maneuvering around so she’s on her knees in front of me. “Do you want me to pull it out or . . . ?”

Before she can finish, I yank the jagged piece of shrapnel out of my thigh. A fresh spurt of blood trickles down my leg. The pain is bad, but Marina quickly numbs it with a blast of cold before using her healing Legacy to close me up. Compared to putting Adam back together, it takes no time at all.

When she’s finished with me, Marina immediately looks back at Adam. “What was that when I was healing you? Why was it so hard?”

“I . . . I don’t know, exactly,” Adam replies, staring into the distance.

“You started to disintegrate a little,” I say. “Like you were dying.”

“I was dying,” Adam says. “But that shouldn’t happen to me. The vatborn warriors you’ve faced turn to ash because they’re made entirely from Setrákus Ra’s genetic experimentation. Some trueborn, like me, receive modifications that would cause them to disintegrate when they die. I haven’t received anything like that, though. At least . . .”

“Not that you know of,” I finish the thought for him.

“Yeah,” Adam replies, looking down at himself like he suddenly doesn’t trust his own body. “I was in a coma for years. It’s possible my father might have done something to me. I don’t know what, though.”

“Whatever it was, I think my healing burned it out of you,” Marina says.

“I hope so,” Adam replies.

All three of us fall silent. With the medical emergencies averted, it becomes clear just how badly we’ve screwed up. I walk over to the scorched patch of dirt where Phiri Dun-Ra’s explosive went off, kicking around tattered bits of duffel bag and misshapen hunks of metal. The bag was probably filled with conduits, but I don’t find anything even slightly salvageable.

We are now totally stranded here.

When I turn around, I find that Adam has picked himself up and is now standing over Phiri’s unconscious body.

“We should kill her,” he says coldly. “There’s no reason to keep her alive.”

“We don’t do that,” Marina answers, her voice gentle, reasonable. “She can’t hurt us if she’s tied up.”

Adam opens his mouth to respond, but seems to decide against it. Marina just saved his life, so I guess he feels like he should listen to her. I actually find myself agreeing with both of them—Phiri Dun-Ra is nothing but trouble, and holding on to her is just begging for her to screw us over again. But killing her when she’s unconscious seems wrong.

“We’ll at least wait for her to wake up,” I say diplomatically. “Figure out what to do with her then.”

The others nod in silent, glum agreement. We head back to the Sanctuary. I use telekinesis to float Phiri’s unconscious body along with us. Once we’re back, Marina keeps the ice shackles nice and thick until we’ve used an electric cable to safely secure the Mog trueborn to the wheel of one of the many broken-down ships. At this point, I’m pretty sure she’s playing possum. Let her. Marina’s right—she can’t hurt us while she’s tied up, and if she gets free, well, I’ll make sure Adam gets his wish.

Not sure what else to do, I try the satellite phone again. Still no answer from John. That makes me think of Phiri Dun-Ra telling us that the war had already come and gone. I don’t have any new scars, which means John and Nine are still very much alive, but that doesn’t mean everything is copacetic back in New York.

“Adam, can we key into the Mog communications from one of these ships?” I ask. “I want to know what’s happening.”

“Of course,” he replies, jumping at the opportunity to do something productive.

The three of us climb on board our old Skimmer, Adam settling into the pilot’s seat. He successfully powers on the ship’s electric systems, although the lights flicker spastically and something in the Skimmer’s core groans at the effort. Adam begins turning a dial on the dashboard, picking up nothing but intermittent bursts of static.

“I just need to find the right frequency,” he says.

I sigh. “It’s fine. Not like we’re going anywhere.”

Next to me, Marina gazes at the Sanctuary through the Skimmer’s window. Because we left the floodlights on, the entire temple is lit up, the ancient limestone practically glowing.

“Don’t lose hope, Six,” Marina says quietly. “We’ll figure this out.”

When Adam turns the dial again, the static is replaced by a guttural Mogadorian voice. The Mog speaks in a clipped, no-nonsense way, like he’s reading items off a list. Of course, I can’t understand a word of what he’s saying.

I elbow Adam. “You going to translate?”

“I . . .” Adam, staring at the radio like it’s possessed, doesn’t know what to say. I quickly realize that he doesn’t want to tell me what news is coming in over the radio.

“How bad?” I ask, keeping my voice level. “Just tell me how bad.”

Adam clears his throat and shakily begins to translate. “Moscow, moderate resistance. Cairo, no resistance. Tokyo, no resistance. London, moderate resistance. New Delhi, moderate resistance. Washington, D.C., no resistance. Beijing, high resistance, preservation protocols lifted—”

“What are these?” I cut him off, losing patience with the droning. “Their attack plans?”

“They’re status reports, Six,” Adam says, his voice low. “Warships are reporting in on how the invasion is progressing. Each of those cities has one of the huge warships backing up an occupation effort, and they aren’t the only ones . . .”

“It’s happening?” Marina asks, sitting forward. “I thought we had more time.”

“The fleet is on Earth,” Adam replies, his face blank.

“What did that thing mean about preservation protocols?” I ask. “You said they were lifted in Beijing.”

“Preservation protocols are Setrákus Ra’s way of keeping Earth intact for long-term occupation. If they’re lifted in Beijing, it means they’re destroying the city,” Adam says. “Using it to send a message to other cities that might cause trouble.”

“My God . . . ,” Marina whispers.

“One warship alone could destroy a city in a few hours,” Adam continues. “If they . . .”

He trails off, some new status on the radio getting his attention. He swallows and turns the dial hard, lowering the volume on reports of Mogadorian success.

I grab him by the shoulder. “What is it? What did you hear?”

“New York . . . ,” he begins grimly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “New York, Garde-assisted resistance . . .”

“That’s us! That’s John!”

Adam shakes his head, finishing the translation. “Garde-assisted resistance overcome. Incursion successful.”

“What does that mean?” Marina asks.

“It means they’ve won,” Adam replies darkly. “They’ve conquered New York City.”

They’ve won. The phrase repeats itself in my mind.

They’re taking over and we’re stranded down here.

Because I don’t have a better target it for it, I punch the console where the dull buzz of Mogadorian progress drones on. Sparks erupt from the dashboard and Adam leaps out of the pilot’s chair, startled. Marina gets onto her feet and tries to wrap her arms around me, but I shrug her off.

“Six!” she yells after me as I jump out of the cockpit. “It isn’t over!”

I stand atop our Skimmer feeling rage burning inside me, but having nowhere to channel it. I look at the Sanctuary, bathed in light. This place was supposed to be our salvation. Our trip down here hasn’t changed anything, though. It almost got us killed and now we’re out of the war. How many people are dying because we’re not there to help John save New York?

I feel an itch on the back of my neck. Someone’s watching me. I turn around, my gaze drifting to the runway and the other ships. Phiri Dun-Ra is awake, tied up right where we left her.

She grins at me.