Burn (21 page)

“Call it what you will, if it makes you feel righteous,” the Sicarii says. “But if the donor can serve some purpose, we can drain its body of telomerase more gradually, which enables it to remain alive until it is no longer useful to us. Brayton Alexander led me to believe he had more access and credibility than he actually did. Still, he was helpful.”

“You mean he was a traitor,” Congers snarls, his finger twitching toward the trigger of his weapon. “But if there was complete genetic transfer, why do you still think like a parasitic alien instead of like your victim?”

The Sicarii only seems amused by his fury. “We have been genetically and biochemically modified so that our minds are preserved even as our bodies undergo the dramatic changes that come with the DNA transfer.”

“But you needed Brayton as cover, and to provide information,” I add. “You left him alive. Charles Willetts, too.” I almost ask about George, but I don't want to think about it.

The Sicarii nods, blond hair falling across its forehead. “Like we did on the H2 planet, scouts were sent ahead to identify and neutralize potential threats. Our squad has been on Earth and investigating for several weeks, and were already aware of the Core and The Fifty. We had begun to infiltrate and gather the information required to quietly dispose of you, but when we saw the report of the scanning device on television, we knew we needed to move quickly to acquire it.”

“Why?” It's all I can do not to shout that word. I stride across the room and snatch the scanner from Angus, and he's too surprised to stop me. I flip it on and wave it in front of the Sicarii's face. It squints against the orange light until I switch it off and point to the ports on its side. “What are these for?”

It seems baffled. “How did you create the defense system, if you are so ignorant?”

Because my dad held all the knowledge in his head. “We know it differentiates the three species,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady and low. My fingers are running along the ports. “Do these make it some sort of weapon?”

The Sicarii's eyebrows rise as it watches the scanner shake in my tight grasp. “You really don't know,” it says, its lips trembling as it tries to hold back a smile. “You're not a threat at all.”

“You have no idea how much of a threat you're facing,” growls Congers, wrenching his arm away from Race and raising his weapon.

The Sicarii gazes at him with icy contempt. “You have gathered your most formidable people within this crater, the only ones with any knowledge that could complicate our peaceful invasion. You have also gathered within these walls the only weapons that could interfere with our plans. You have taken so long to figure out that I was among you that I was able to destroy most of the defenses that could stop our scout force from flying in and taking what we want, killing all of you, and proceeding with our mission to clear the way for the rest of our species, which is already crossing the galaxy.” The Sicarii chuckles, part pity, part hatred. “And now you're so obsessed with forcing me to give you the answers that are right in front of you that you're virtually guaranteeing your own deaths. We will burn this compound to the ground.”

Race and I lock eyes as a wave of dread rolls through my body. “They're coming,” I say in a choked voice. “It must have found a way to contact the rest of the scout force. We've been wasting time. It's only talking because it thinks they'll be able to neutralize all of us.”

“At last, one of you has drawn an intelligent conclusion,” the Sicarii mutters.

The room explodes in shouted commands and deliberate motion. “Radio the defense stations,” snaps Angus to his guards. Congers already has his phone to his ear and is barking instructions. Race orders the guards to take the Sicarii to the storage room and lock it in.

“No,” says Congers. “I'll take care of it.” And with that, he raises his weapon and shoots the Ellie-Sicarii between the eyes.

“It took out three of the six stations,” I say, lunging for the door and bolting into the hallway, the scanner still clutched in my sweaty fist. “The Archers will be needed to defend the compound.”

Race and Graham catch up with me a second later as I burst into the atrium and head for the back. “Then we'd better pray that Manuel works fast,” Race huffs.

“Tate, hold up!” my mother shouts as she darts from an elevator, waving a plastic bag in front of her. “I figured out what these are!”

I slow down and let the others run ahead. Mom reaches my side as we crash through the doors and head for the Archers. “Can you tell me now?”

She points at the scanner. “These should fit those ports.” She touches the contents of the bag, which turn out to be three of the chips that spilled from the broken compartment of the H2 wreckage this morning.

“I thought they might. What do they do?”

“Each of the three responds to a different species' DNA, sending off a specific electromagnetic signal when it detects it. I tested them on Charles's neural tissue, and this one lit up.”

“And the other two?”

“I tested them on two of the bodies in the morgue, one H2 and one human.” She touches one of the chips. “Human.” She touches another. “H2.”

“But what do they do?”

“You'll have to stick them in the scanner to find out. I was told we have the Sicarii prisoner. We could test it on her and—”

“No time.” I grab the bag from her without even slowing down. “The scout ships are coming. The Sicarii was trying to stall us. I should have figured it out when it was willing to explain so much, but—”
I was too desperate for answers.

We come to a stop at the edge of the lot and look out at the bustle of activity around the five remaining Archers, one of which has a dented front end and broken hood cannon. The one the Sicarii hijacked must have been too damaged to repair quickly.

I look up at the sky, wondering from which direction the fight will come. Wondering if we'll stand a chance.

Wondering if, when we are face-to-face with the enemy, the scanner will be what my dad said it was: the key to our survival.

PEOPLE ARE SCRAMBLING OVER THE ARCHERS, ALL
purposeful movement and teamwork, and my mom rushes over to help, even though she's clearly favoring her injured arm. Everybody's loading the custom artillery shells into the cannons, oiling the autocannon rails, fastening the enormous lenses into place. It's an act of pure faith. We still have no idea what those lenses do, but they're right above the weapons console. It may help the gunner get a visual if the console screen fails, but it also puts him or her in a very vulnerable position—the lens is like a sign painted on the roof of the vehicle that says “SHOOT HERE.”

I still don't get it. And right now, I don't have time to figure it out. While everyone else goes about their work, I sit on the curb with the chips and the scanner. I handle each component gingerly, because if they do actually weaponize the device, I don't want to end up killing myself with it. I remove each component and lay it on the plastic bag. I match the shape to each port along the side of the scanner. Then I insert the H2 chip into the scanner. It slides in, proving the device was made to accept it. I then slide the Sicarii chip in, but as soon as I do, it ejects the H2 chip. When I push the H2 chip in, it ejects the Sicarii chip.

The scanner is meant to house one chip at a time, which reminds me of what the Ellie-Sicarii said about it—it had been impressive in its intensity
and specificity.
Since I only have one enemy at the moment, I pull the H2 chip from the scanner and tuck it back into the bag, along with the human chip, and keep the Sicarii chip installed. I turn on the device, aiming it away from me. It glows yellow, then blue as Kellan walks by, his muscular arms straining to heft a large box of ammo.

The scanner seems to be working normally. I put the bag containing the remaining chips in my pocket and head over to the Archers. Manuel has his head down. His olive skin is ashen. Kellan leans on the rear of the vehicle, his curly brown hair messy like he's been running his hands through it. “He was a good kid, man. And the only one left in his family. We're The Forty-Nine now,” Kellan says quietly. “It feels wrong.”

Manuel nods, clutching a screwdriver so tightly that his hand is shaking. “We'll end it here. When they come, we'll be ready.”

He raises his head and looks out at the crowd that's moving through the lot; the patriarchs and matriarchs of The Fifty are heading for the underground bunkers.

As they pass us by, I look around the crater, at the destroyed defense stations in the distance, at the five Archers that will have to make up for the loss. They look so small and powerless when I think of a bunch of Sicarii ships descending on us. “We need more firepower than this.”

Race's gaze traces the interior of the Archer, sliding over the unique controls for the cannons and the lens hanging over it. “Maybe we have more than we think we do. We just haven't had time to figure it out.”

By silent agreement, we climb into the vehicle, moving aside while Manuel makes sure the console is secure. Race and I eye the lens. It fits awkwardly over the hole cut into the vehicle's roof, into a maneuverable carriage that has its own shock-absorbing system to keep it from cracking if the Archer hits a bump. The two autocannons are mounted on rails on either side, directly above the gunner's pit, with its rotating chair and stick controls. As I imagine sitting beneath a giant piece of glass with those Sicarii ships flying overhead, I understand why Angus suggested we leave them out. Sure, the Archer is armored, but if one of the Sicarii lands a vertical hit on one of these lenses, the gunner below is going to be cut to ribbons or vaporized entirely. The driver, piloting from the reinforced cockpit, stands a slightly better chance of survival.

“If people die because of this . . .” I say, running my finger along the underside of the lens.

“Any ideas at all?” Race asks.

I shrug. “No good ones.” Nothing worthy of my dad. If he were here, would he be disappointed in me? I know I am.

Race sighs. “We don't know when the attack will come. We need to select our combat teams.”

He pushes past me and exits the Archer, standing on the sidewalk.

“This is a volunteer force,” Race shouts, and everyone stops to listen. “We need five teams of two, and each of those teams needs to understand that this is a very dangerous mission. We will be defending the compound. We are greatly outnumbered. We're operating powerful weapons we don't fully understand. But the alternative is to allow the Sicarii to overrun the compound. They could take down the satellite shield. And if they do that, this planet will be theirs. The stakes could not be higher.”

As he speaks, Angus and Congers approach. They've been controlling the procession headed down to the bunkers and communicating with the perimeter defense stations. Both look ready for war in their own way. Angus is all flame and ferocity, his massive frame tense and vibrating with violence. Congers, on the other hand, is absolutely still, ice to Angus's fire. They listen quietly and watch the assembled group in front of them.

“I'll go,” says Graham. He stares at his dad as he steps forward.

Race smiles and claps him on the shoulder, but Congers doesn't move. His eyes don't flicker with any emotion at all. Graham sags a little.

I'm about to open my mouth and join his combat team when Sung says loudly, “I'll ride with you. I know how to operate those guns.” He stands next to his fellow Core agent, shoulder to shoulder, and Graham straightens. His expression flickers with gratitude. Congers looks away, his gaze focusing on the distant horizon.

Graham steps forward suddenly. “Dad,” he says quietly.

Congers turns back to him. For the briefest moment, Congers's chin trembles, but then he regains his tight control. He places his hand on Graham's shoulder, squeezes, and then lets his son go.

Graham's eyes are painfully bright as his father walks away to stand next to Angus again.

“We have one team, then,” says Race, looking at the two young agents with obvious pride.

“I'm definitely going,” Manuel says loudly. “I want a chance to shoot one of those Sicarii out of the sky.” He lopes over to the sidewalk and stands next to Graham and Sung.

Kellan joins him immediately. He looks at Angus, who nods. “I'll drive you, man,” he says to Manuel. “We'll do it for Leo.”

“We have a second team,” Race announces.

Figuring I'd better claim my spot, I start to move forward, but Christina suddenly emerges from the crowd, her hair pulled back, her face pale. There's a smear of Leo's blood on her shirt. The bottom drops out of my stomach. I assumed she was still with him, grieving but safe. Instead, she's here, offering up her life. Her storm-blue eyes are on me, so focused, so determined. I grit my teeth as she stops in front of me.

“We have a third—” begins Race.

“I can't,” I say to him, and then I turn to Christina. “I can't. Please don't ask me to.”

Everybody's watching, and I know that, but they fade away as she comes closer. “I'm good with those guns. You need me out there.” She reaches out to put her hand on my chest, but I flinch away. “You said we'd do this together.”

I can barely speak over the lump in my throat. “No,” I whisper. “I can't do this if you're with me. I can't be on a team with you.”

She looks over at the other two teams, shoulder to shoulder, and then her gaze returns to me, questioning and hurt. And I want to tell her how much I've felt for her and for exactly how long, how I'd break if something happened to her, how I'd fall apart completely if it went down
in front of me.
I've already had to watch Leo die. I can't do it again. But all that comes out is, “I'm sorry.”

My mother appears at Christina's shoulder right as my girlfriend's eyes go shiny with anger and defiance. The sting of rejection is so plain on her face, her cheeks suffusing with pink. She's looking at me like she wants to knee me in the balls. She doesn't understand at all. I think my mom does, though. She links her arm with Christina's. “You and I can be a team. I'll drive and you shoot.”

Awesome. One of the Archers will contain the two people I love most in the world. “We have our third team,” Race says, his eyes on me like he expects me to object. But how can I? I already know my mom's a badass behind the wheel and that Christina is nearly unbeatable with those control sticks in her hands. But that means she'll be sitting beneath that lens . . .

The horror of the images in my head freezes me up, and at that moment, Rufus shoves his way through the crowd. “I'm going, too. No way am I going to miss out on the chance to help take down those alien bastards. I'll drive. Who's riding with me?”

People seem so stunned that a patriarch of The Fifty has volunteered for what sounds like a suicide mission that everyone goes still. And in that quiet, Congers very calmly says, “I will.”

Angus puts his hand on Congers's arm. “You might be needed here, for your agents—”

Congers stares him down. “Can I trust you to command my agents with respect, like you treat your own?”

Angus lets him go. And in the way he's looking at Congers, I see these two men have formed some sort of odd bond over the past two days, as they've perhaps realized that the differences between them aren't so vast. “I will,” Angus says.

Congers nods at him and goes to stand next to Rufus. He arches an eyebrow. “Is this going to work, Mr. Bishop?”

Rufus folds his arms over his chest, resting them on his protruding belly. He looks straight ahead, not at Congers, as he says, “Only if you can shoot those guns at the right target.”

Congers suppresses a smile and nods. Now we have four teams.

I'm standing in the open space between the Archers and the crowd, still shaken by the idea of the two women I love facing this danger when all I want to do is shout at them to get into those underground bunkers and stay put. It's short-circuited me.

“Tate,” Race says loudly. When my gaze snaps to his, he says, “I'll drive.”

I stare at the guy I used to think was my worst enemy. The severe, serious look on his face reminds me to focus. It reminds me I'm not helpless—and that I still have work to do. I stride over and stand next to him. “And I'll shoot.”

• • •

We choose our vehicles and get ready. We could have hours or minutes or days or seconds, but the way the Sicarii was acting, an attack is imminent, so we prepare accordingly. I try to shift my attention to what lies ahead, and avoid looking at Christina as she climbs into the back of her Archer and slides into the gunner's pit. A moment later, Mom leans into my vehicle and lays her warm hand on my cheek. “I'll take care of her,” she says softly.

“Who'll take care of you?” I ask, my throat tight. “Your arm—”

“My arm will be fine.” She moves her left shoulder carefully and gives me a tight smile. “And as for who'll take care of me: Christina will.” Mom nudges my chin up. “She's a good match for you, Tate. Whatever happens, I want you to know that's what I believe.”

I bend down and pull her into a hug. “Thanks. I hope she believes that, too.”

“She does. That's precisely the reason she's so mad at you right now. And she'll only forgive you if you make it to the other side of this, safe,” says my mother, pulling away.

“I can understand that.”

She takes my face in her hands. “I'm proud of you. I'm
so
proud of you. And if your father were here, he'd be proud of you, too.”

I swallow hard. “Don't say that to me yet.”

“Then I'll say it to you later. Good luck.” She turns on her heel and climbs into the back of the Archer she'll be driving, closing the rear door behind her.

“You made the right decision,” says Race as he joins me at the back of our assigned vehicle. “About Christina.”

“I think we both know it wasn't my decision.” I glance at the locked door of her vehicle. She's in there, probably firing up her control panel, flexing her fingers, getting ready. “It was hers.”

“That wasn't the decision I was talking about.” He heads to the front while I climb into the rear and settle myself in the circular area of the gunner's pit, putting the scanner down next to me. I'm right beneath the lens. I peer up through it and see dark purple sky. The sun has just set, and now the Sicarii have the cover of darkness. It'll be harder to see them coming. Through the smooth expanse of glass above me, the moon is a pinprick of light in the distance, looking much farther away than it actually is. I guess the lenses are definitely not meant to aid with sightings of the enemy.

After I clip on the earpiece that will allow me to communicate with Race throughout whatever we're about to face, I reach up and poke at the lens, and it rattles within its carriage. There are funny hooks protruding down beneath it, but I have no idea what's supposed to be hanging from them. “Come on, Dad,” I whisper to myself. “What were you thinking?”

Race's voice crackles in my earpiece, interrupting my thoughts. “In case I don't get to say it later, I'm glad we're on the same side.”

I let out a huff of quiet laughter. “So am I. I just wish it could have happened a lot sooner.”
Like before my dad was killed.

“Me too,” he says.

“Do you have kids?” I ask. For some reason, I really need to know.

He's quiet for a few long seconds. “I do, actually. A son. He lives with my ex-wife in DC. He's seven.”

“See him much?”

Another pause. “Not often enough. My job—”

“Can I give you some advice?”

“Can I stop you?”

“Try harder,” I say. “You're more important to him than you think.” I busy myself looking at the circular view screen, letting my eyes adjust to the night vision. “That's all.”