The Revenge of Seven

‘We need to protect as many as we can,’ I reply.

‘They need to protect themselves,’ Nine says, then shouts over the shoulder of one of our agents. ‘Go home, you morons! Or get some guns and come back!’

Walker glares at him. ‘Please don’t encourage the civilians to get armed.’

Nine gives her a wild look and keeps shouting. ‘It’s war, lady! These people need to get prepared!’

Some of the people around us have overheard, or maybe they’re just unnerved by the growing police presence. I notice a few exchange nervous looks and people begin trickling back the way we came. Walker grimaces at Nine, then slaps one of the agents on the shoulder.

‘Forward!’ she shouts. ‘We need to move forward!’

There’s still a mob separating us from the UN, and it shows no signs of really thinning out. Walker’s agents and the cops start muscling through and we’re carried along with them.

‘Watch it, dude! No cutting in the line to get beamed up!’ shouts one bystander.

‘Holy shit! It’s the Men in Black!’ screams another.

‘Are they going to hurt us?’ a woman we pass yells at Sanderson, maybe recognizing him as someone important looking. ‘Are we in danger?’

Sanderson averts his eyes and soon the woman is lost in the crowd. It’s slow going, even with a dozen cops and agents bull-rushing ahead of us. These people need to get out of our way.

A wild-eyed guy with a scraggly beard who looks like the type to be waving handmade signs about the end of the world barrels right into Agent Walker. She’s thrown off balance, and I reach out to steady her. Walker doesn’t thank me – there’s fury and frustration in her eyes. Fed up with the crowd, she reaches for the gun holstered on her hip, maybe thinking she’ll fire a few shots in the air to clear the area. I stop her arm and shake my head when she glares at me.

‘Don’t. You’ll start a panic.’

‘This is already a panic,’ she replies.

‘Personally, I’d be panicking more if someone was shooting,’ Sam chimes in.

Walker makes an annoyed noise and goes back to pushing her way through the crowd. I elbow Nine in the ribs. ‘Let’s help them,’ I tell him, adding, ‘But don’t hurt anyone.’

Nine nods and we begin using telekinesis to move people out of our way. Nine’s gentler than I would have expected. We create a sort of telekinetic bubble around us, the nearby bystanders sliding off it. No one gets trampled, and slowly the path starts to clear for Walker and the rest of our escort.

As we move closer to the UN, we come directly under the shadow of the Mogadorian warship. A chill goes through me, but I try not let it show. There are flags of every nation planted in the ground on both sides of the road we’re pressing down, all these symbols flapping in a gentle spring breeze, caught beneath the looming Mogadorian vessel.

Up ahead, I see that a stage has been hastily erected at the front entrance of the UN. There is a more organized police force there – both local cops and the UN’s private security. They keep people away from the stage and from storming the entrance to the main building. There’s a concentration of press up ahead, too, all of them with cameras eagerly swinging between the stage and the hovering spacecraft.

I grab Sanderson around the shoulders and yank him close, pointing to the stage.

‘What’s the deal with that? What’s supposed to happen here?’

Sanderson grimaces at me but doesn’t try to wriggle away. ‘The Beloved Leader has a taste for theatrics. Did you know he wrote a book?’

‘Reading is stupid,’ grunts Nine, more focused on the crowd.

‘I don’t care about his propaganda. Explain the stage, Sanderson.’

‘Propaganda, like you said,’ Sanderson replies. ‘Myself and some of the others from MogPro – the ones our dear friend Walker probably had arrested – we were supposed to greet Setrákus Ra. He was going to demonstrate the gifts the Mogadorians could offer humanity.’

I remember the state we found Sanderson in, all black veined and nearly keeled over, all strung out on the Mogadorian’s so-called medical advancements.

‘He was going to heal you,’ I say, putting it together.

‘Hallelujah!’ Sanderson says, bitterly. ‘Our savior! Then, we’d invite him inside the UN for discussions and, come tomorrow, a peaceful resolution would be adopted to allow the Mogs into the airspace of every member nation.’

‘And that’s it,’ Sam says. ‘Earth would be surrendered.’

‘At least it would be peaceful,’ Sanderson says.

‘Don’t you think people would freak out?’ I ask Sanderson. ‘I mean, look around. Imagine what will happen when the Mogs actually show themselves? Start walking around? Taking things over? There’d be panic, riots – even with your bullshit diplomacy. How was your plan ever going to work?’

‘Of course he thought of that,’ Sanderson says. ‘That’s how Setrákus Ra plans to identify the dissidents. The problem elements.’

‘So he’ll know who to kill,’ Nine grunts.

‘That’s sick,’ Sam says.

‘A small price to pay for humanity’s survival,’ Sanderson argues.

‘I’ve seen the future under Mogadorian rule,’ I tell Sanderson. ‘Believe me. It’s a bigger price than you’re willing to pay.’