Too late. Too late to run.
“Adamus,” snarls Ivan as he strides into the room. “Fancy meeting you here.”
CHAPTER 18
Streaming into the room behind Ivan are half a dozen Mogadorian warriors. Two of them stay posted at the door; the others fan out, covering the windows, cutting off any possible escape route. They’re a well-oiled machine, the protocol in this situation clear. Contain the Garde at all costs.
I’m frozen in place. I’m not armed, having forgotten to grab so much as a dagger on my way out of the Mogadorian headquarters. Even if I did try to fight—against my own people, a concept I still haven’t come to terms with—I wouldn’t stand a chance. At least that’s how I justify my cowardice.
Maggie doesn’t suffer from any of my uncertainties. She might have given me the benefit of the doubt, but not Ivan and his strike team. She knows she’s in danger.
She executes a gymnast-caliber somersault towards the table where she set down her gun. Maggie moves more quickly than I expected, her fingers nearly closing around the weapon.
But Ivan is quicker.
Before Maggie can grab the gun, he boots the table towards her. The edge hits her right in the stomach, audibly knocking the wind out of her. Maggie, the gun and the table all go crashing to the floor.
Maggie recovers quickly, already desperately scrambling for the weapon when Ivan kicks it out of her reach. It skitters to a stop just inches from my feet.
Ivan steps on the back of Maggie’s neck, grinding her face into the dusty floor. He must outweigh her by more than a hundred pounds. Maggie thrashes, screaming in frustration and pain, but Ivan keeps her pinned as he lifts up his shirt, examining his rib cage.
At first I don’t understand what he’s doing. But then I realize he’s looking for bruises. If Maggie was still protected by the Loric charm, then the damage from when Ivan kicked the table into her would have been done to him. Unless she’s next in line.
Ivan just confirmed that Maggie is Number Two.
“Number Two,” he says, a note of gruesome satisfaction in his voice. “My lucky day.”
While Ivan has his shirt up, I notice a wound on his side. It looks like a bullet graze. Blood runs down his body, collecting in the waistband of his pants. He sees me looking and smiles proudly.
“Don’t worry, buddy,” Ivan says. “You should see the other guy.” He winks.
That’s when it hits me. Ivan doesn’t know what I was doing here. All he cares about is that the protocol of his mission has just changed from apprehend to eliminate.
Understanding that Ivan was referring to her Cêpan, Maggie begins struggling with renewed vigor. She manages to slip from under Ivan’s boot, but only gets a hard kick in the chest for her trouble. The way Ivan kicks Maggie is as casual as the way I watched my sister build and snuff out a piken.
Maggie’s down again, and this time Ivan presses a foot onto her back. She coughs raggedly, then cranes her neck up to look at me. One of the lenses of her glasses is shattered.
“You said you’d help me,” she gasps.
Ivan laughs. Some of the other Mogadorians in the room crack smiles.
“Is that what he told you?” exclaims Ivan, amused. “Crafty Adamus! You always were the smart one. Come rushing over here all by yourself to claim all the glory, while the rest of us are out fighting.”
Ivan waves his hand at the gun at my feet.
“Go ahead,” he says. “Help her.” Sarcasm drips from his words.
I pick up the gun in a shaky hand and hold it loosely at my side. None of the Mogadorians in the room have weapons drawn. They really have no idea what I was doing here. Of course they don’t believe Number Two. Why would they trust her over one of their own?
I glance around the room and force a smile. Ivan thinks he’s just handed me a gift, and I know I need to play along. But what I’m really trying to figure out is how many I’d be able to kill before they returned fire? Two? Maybe three?
I’d start with Ivan, that much I’m sure of.
The small gun feels impossibly heavy. It’s now or never.
But I can’t do it. I can’t kill my own people any more than I could kill Maggie. I meet her eyes, large and pleading. I wish I could at least tell her how sorry I am, but the words won’t come. I’m too afraid to even speak.
I drop the gun and look away.
“Don’t have the stomach for it?” sneers Ivan, unsheathing his dagger. “Whatever. You did your part.”
Ivan reaches down and grabs a handful of Maggie’s hair, jerking her head back to expose her throat. I see a metallic glint around her neck: her pendant. A grin spreads across Ivan’s face as he sees it too. He raises his dagger, and I can feel him staring at me. Does he think I’m a coward, or worse, a traitor?
“For Mogadorian progress,” Ivan shouts.
CHAPTER 19
There are hundreds of pictures of the Irish countryside in Two’s “Photos!” folder. Even when it’s rainy, the landscape is beautiful: lush and green, hills sprawling, mist sometimes rolling in. I click through until I reach a set of pictures dedicated to a goat, a scrawny little mongrel with brown patches of fur appearing like mud stains on his otherwise white coat. The pet Number Two had to leave behind when she and Conrad fled Ireland.
Here’s a picture with her arms flung around the goat’s neck. I wonder what the animal’s name was.
I glance at the drying bloodstain on the apartment’s floor, as if for an answer.
The other Mogadorians have left, some to celebrate, others to have their wounds treated from the battle with Conrad. I’ve been left alone here to go through Number Two’s laptop. There won’t be any memory download this time; rummaging through Two’s private files will be as close as I get to knowing her.
There are few pictures of Conrad in Two’s albums. Most of the time her Cêpan smiles indulgently, but other times the photographs are candid: Conrad reading a book next to a fire, Conrad chopping wood. I get the impression that they led a quiet life together, much less contentious than One and Hilde.
Besides the pictures, there are a few documents on the laptop. Two never kept a proper journal, but she wrote plenty. There is a long list of “Books to Read.” There are frequently updated rankings of her favorite novels, and more specific lists like “Strong Female Characters” and “Villains Cooler Than the Heroes.” I read through these lists, although I hardly understand any of the references. I make some mental notes of books that I’d like to read. I think maybe Two would be happy that someone, even a Mogadorian, took some of her recommendations.
And then I think of the horror in Two’s eyes as Ivan brought his dagger down, how I stood by and did nothing. What am I thinking? That I’ll somehow make good on that by reading every title on the “Books That Inspired Me” list? How stupid and hollow.
“Anything interesting?”
My father stands in the doorway. He made it out of the Conrad Hoyle fight unscathed.
“No,” I reply, closing Two’s laptop.
The truth is, I’ve already deleted the only interesting thing on Two’s computer. A reply to her ill-advised blog post. I deleted the comment along with the original posting, although I’m sure the techs back at headquarters already flagged it.
The General looms over me. Normally, we’re supposed to snap to attention when he enters a room, but I can’t work up the energy to go through the motions. I stay slouched in the chair, looking up at him.
“Ivanick tells me that you couldn’t kill the Garde,” he says, disappointment and rebuke mixing in his voice.
“I could have killed her,” I clarify. “Any of us could have killed her. She was a child.”
My father’s face darkens. “Your tone disagrees with me, boy.”
“Yeah?” I snap, suddenly reminded of the way One argued with Hilde. I want to say more, but then I think better of it. After all, look what happened to One. “Sorry, Father,” I say in as even a tone as I can muster. “It won’t happen again.”
“That child would have killed you if the tables were turned,” my father says, and I can tell by the way the vein along his temple throbs that this effort to engage me in civilized conversation is requiring great self-control. “She would see your entire people wiped out.”
That’s what we’ve been taught. What Setrákus Ra has told us. But Two knew what I was, and she wasn’t going to shoot me. Also, nowhere on her laptop files was there a list of “Preferred Genocide Methods.” Once again my head starts to spin as everything I’ve been raised to believe is called into question.
“Father, I don’t think that’s true,” I say quietly.
“You doubt what I’ve taught you, boy? What we learn from the Great Book?”
I look up at the General. Meeting his gaze takes some effort, his eyes burning with his barely contained temper.
“Yes,” I whisper.
My father punches me in the face.
His fist is as heavy as a brick, even though I’m sure he pulled the punch somewhat or I’d be unconscious instead of merely toppling backwards out of the chair, my bottom lip split open. I feel blood trickling down my chin, taste it on my tongue. I know the smart thing would be to curl up, to avoid any further punishment; but instead I climb to my knees, chin raised, waiting for the next strike.
It doesn’t come. My father stands over me, his fists clenched, staring into my eyes. I feel a heat that I haven’t felt before—anger, righteous anger—and that emotion must reach my eyes, because my father’s initial look of disgust suddenly betrays something else. A look I’m unfamiliar with.
It’s respect. Not for my argument against killing Two—certainly not for that—but for being willing to take another punch.
“Finally,” growls the General. “You’ve got some blood on you.”
I look down at my hands. They’re pale, soft, and clean. I think of watching Number Two die. My hands should be covered in blood. And just like that, the anger leaks out of me and is replaced by something else, something worse.
Hopelessness.
“I’m sorry for defying you,” I say, keeping my eyes downcast. “You’re right, of course.”
I can feel the General watching me for a moment longer, as if considering what to do with me. Then, without another word, he stalks out of the apartment, heedlessly walking through the spot where Ivan let Number Two bleed out.
I sink onto my hands and knees, feeling suddenly breathless. How long can I keep going like this, living among a people that I no longer understand?
CHAPTER 20
Back at Ashwood Estates, they hold a banquet for Ivan.
All these planned suburban developments come equipped with community halls for neighborhood parties. It’s been three years since One was killed, and our community hall hasn’t seen use since then. People from the neighborhood spend a weekend cleaning out the dust, moving in a large table, and preparing food.
I wasn’t awake for the last celebration. I wish I could sleep through this one.
The General gives a speech describing Ivan’s valor in the field. Then he pins a medal shaped like a Mogadorian sword to Ivan’s chest, Ivan grinning stupidly as my neighbors rapturously applaud. There’s no mention made of my early arrival at Two’s safe house, nor does my father spend even a moment memorializing the warriors that didn’t return home, gunned down by Conrad Hoyle in the streets of London. No time spent on the weak.
