The Fallen Legacies (8 page)

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.

I slip out, leaving behind a half-finished dinner, and I return to my house, enjoying the quiet darkness of my room. With the withering looks my father’s been giving me since London, I’m sure he’s glad I left early. Without me there, he can pretend Ivan is his trueborn son. They’ll both love that.

It’s a pleasant, breezy night, but I close my window, wanting to seal out the noise from the banquet. I gaze through narrowed eyes at the lights from the community hall, my neighbors enjoying their biggest celebration since coming to Earth thanks to the cold-blooded murder of an unarmed child.

When I turn away from the window, One is standing in the middle of my room. It’s the first time that she’s appeared to me since London. Her look is cold and accusing, far worse than the disdainful stares I’ve been receiving from my father.

“You watched her die,” she says.

I push my knuckles into my temples and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will her away. When I open my eyes, One hasn’t budged.

“Whatever part of my brain you’re hiding out in,” I snarl, “go back there and leave me alone.”

“You could’ve at least kicked the gun to her,” she says, ignoring me. “Given her a fighting chance.”

It’s a scenario I’ve agonized over: Two’s silly little gun lying at my feet, her only a short distance away. I’ve played out the possibilities in my head and managed to rationalize the fear I was feeling at the time as strategic self-preservation. There was no way Two was getting out of that room alive, whether I helped her or not. But knowing that doesn’t make me feel any less a coward.

“They still would have killed her,” I say, voice shaking. “And then they would’ve killed me.”

“Which is what you’re really worried about,” replies One, rolling her eyes. “Saving your own skin.”

“If I die, what happens to you?” I ask, my voice rising. I want One to understand.

“I’m already dead, dummy.”

“Are you? Because it sure seems like you’re here now, making me feel worse than I already do. I’m sorry I couldn’t save Two, but—”

I’m interrupted by a soft knock on my bedroom door. I was so distracted by One I didn’t even hear footsteps coming up the stairs. Without waiting for me to invite her, my mother slowly opens my door, looking concerned. I wonder how much of my conversation with my imaginary friend she overheard.

“Who are you talking to?” she asks.

I shoot a surreptitious glance to where One was standing a moment ago. She’s gone now, retreated back into my brain.

“No one,” I snap, sitting down on the foot of my bed. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to check on you,” she says, and gently takes my chin in her hands. She examines the yellowing bruise on my jaw, the scabbed-over spot on my bottom lip. “He should not have done this.”

“I was being insubordinate,” I say, the token reply to one of the General’s rebukes coming easily.

My mother sits down on the bed next to me. I get the feeling that she wants to say more but is having trouble finding the words.

“He told me what happened,” she begins, hesitating. “With you and the Garde child. He wanted to send you to West Virginia, but I talked him out of it.”

There’s a mountain base in West Virginia where intensive training classes take place. I’ve heard the “training” is really endless hours of laboring in underground tunnels. For a trueborn like me to be sent there would be the equivalent of a human teenager being sent to military school.

“Thanks,” I reply, not entirely sure why my mother is telling me this.

She stands up and goes to my window, looking out at the lights of the banquet.

“Get back to your studies,” she says quietly. “Grow stronger. And the next time you have a chance to take down a Garde, do it.”

My mother kneels in front of me, cupping my bruised face in her hands. She stares into my eyes, her look beseeching.

I stare back at her in disappointment, sensing that there’s something more she wants to say.

“Yes, Mother,” I reply. She opens her mouth to speak, but closes it without saying a word.

CHAPTER 21

I am a model young Mogadorian.

I am dedicated to my studies. My understanding of Ra’s Great Book is lauded by my instructors, my dedication to Mogadorian progress unquestioned. I finish top of my class in Advanced Tactical Planning, my final essay on how a Mogadorian guerrilla force could overwhelm a well-defended human city with a minimum of Mogadorian casualties trumpeted as something my father might have written in his younger days.

“Your son makes me certain that our military will continue to flourish well into the next generation,” I overhear one of my instructors tell the General. My father replies with only a grim nod. We have not spoken since London. It has been two years.

I keep my other tactical plans to myself. Secreted away in my room, I scribble out a plan for how a human army with proper strategic intelligence could repel a Mogadorian force. When I’m satisfied with the plan, I burn the pages in the bathroom sink and rinse away the ash.

Hand-to-hand combat is still not my strong suit. Ivan always chooses me as his partner for drills. Afterward, I’m always bruised and sore, and Ivan has barely broken a sweat. He is bigger and stronger than any of the other students, and when we spar I see an emptiness in his eyes. It’s the same dark look he gave me when standing over Number Two’s body in London. It’s like he thinks we’re still in competition for the General’s favor, even though I’ve long dropped out of that race. He’s won, but he’s too dense to realize it, still viewing me as a rival. When we train with blades, he “accidentally” cuts my arm, the wound requiring three sutures.

“I’ll toughen you up yet, Adamus,” he sneers, standing over me, blood squeezing through my fingers as I hold my arm. “Make your father proud.”

“Thank you, Brother,” I reply.

What little free time I have, I spend in the capital. I don’t bring Ivan along on these trips anymore, and I no longer waste time human-watching at the National Mall. I find a quiet bookstore where I entertain myself for hours reading what titles I can remember from Two’s favorite books lists. I begin with George Orwell.

“Why did I have to get stuck in the brain of the universe’s most boring Mogadorian?” complains One during a weekend trip to the bookstore. She visits me often, sometimes more than once a day. In a way, she’s sort of my only friend. She teases me, but I know she doesn’t mind these quiet periods of reading something other than the Great Book. During my Mogadorian classes, I can feel her mind growing restless inside me. Sometimes she manifests, commenting on how heinously pale my instructors are, or when I’m sparring with Ivan, how the discovery of deodorant would be a great step in Mogadorian progress. I’ve learned not to acknowledge her in public, to limit our conversations to the night, when everyone else is asleep.