United as One (33 page)

There's no movement in the windows. The house is dark. There's a FOR SALE sign driven into the front yard.

I've imagined this a hundred times over the last year. How I would come here and ring the doorbell like old times. How I would see Sarah's parents and tell them how much I loved their daughter, how much she meant to me, how much she meant to the world even if not many people know it and how sorry I am that I dragged her into everything that happened. I would tell them that I miss her every day. And then I would throw myself on their mercy.

I've imagined it so many times, but I can't do it. I can't take that walk up those steps.

I'm too scared. I don't want to see the look in their eyes. I don't want to grapple with the pain I've caused them.

Maybe someday I'll be ready.

Not today.

In their tour of Europe, Six and Sam have made it to Montenegro by the time I catch up with them. They're camping on a secluded part of Jaz Beach. Even at night, the water shines like crystal, the purple swells of the nearby hills a stunning contrast. I'm happy for them—the way they've traveled, how much they've seen in a year—and at the same time, my heart aches because it isn't me.

On the beach, I find their campfire and their tent, but I don't find Six or Sam. No, for that I need to follow the trail of clothes towards the water's edge. I see them out there, silhouettes in the moonlight, tangled together in the water.

I laugh quietly and look away.

I'm not going to be a third wheel here, even if I do miss them both badly. I also haven't talked to Six since—well, since she saved my life. A life that I was more than ready to throw away. Like Sarah's family, I'm not sure what I'll say to her. For now, better to let it go unsaid.

From inside my wooden box, I withdraw two pendants. They're carved from Loralite stone that I chipped off the main rock back in the Himalayas. Chiseled into both of them is the Loric symbol for Unity. I
drape these across their sleeping bags and find a scrap of paper to write them a short note. I let them know how the pendants work, that they just need to visualize the Himalayas and it should bring them to the chamber I've set up, the one I've scrubbed clean of the past and made ready for the future.

I write that I hope I'll see them soon, and I mean it.

Marina is the hardest to find. If it wasn't for her sporadic phone calls to Ella over the last few months, it might have taken me weeks to track her down. When I would ask her about Marina, Ella would always get quiet. She said Marina didn't seem like herself. That she seemed paranoid. Angry.

I find her navigating a speedboat between deserted islands in the South Pacific. Her face is sunburned, her wavy hair crisped straight from salt water, and there are deep bags under her eyes. I get the feeling that she's been alone for a while—I recognize the signs; I've seen them in myself. Her lips move when she's not talking, her hands shake, her eyes don't always stay focused.

We were raised in a war, and now—now we're free. Everyone is handling it differently.

When I first appear to her, she doesn't startle as much as the others.

“Are you really there, or have I truly gone crazy?” she asks me.

“I'm here, Marina.”

She smiles that gentle, patient smile. I'm glad to see it.

“Thank God,” she says. “You showed up at a good time.”

I don't ask her where we're going. She drives the boat purposefully, like she'd made this trip before. I lean back and let the spray tickle my cheeks, feel the sun beat down on my neck and shoulders.

Eventually, Marina hands me a cell phone. Our fingers brush, and I notice that she's ice-cold.

“I saw this on the internet, and I—I couldn't let it go,” she says.

She plays a video that she downloaded off YouTube. Of course I recognize the scene. It's the mountain in West Virginia, or what's left of it. Really, it's a crater filled with scorched rubble, the end result of our bombardment of that hellish place. The video was shot a week after our last battle there, when various government agencies had begun picking over the remains.

As a crew clears away some rocks, something knocks them backwards. A shape streaks upwards from the debris like a missile and disappears into the sky. The camera tries to follow it but isn't nearly quick enough.

“We never got that fourth scar, John,” Marina says, her voice a little shaky.

“Maybe the charm was broken,” I say.

“I thought that for a while. Tried to convince myself . . .” She shakes her head. “I know the kinds of places he likes. I remember from . . . from when he told us about himself. Warm and tropical. Secluded.”

“And?”

“I found him last week,” Marina says.

Marina cuts the boat's engine as we approach a small island. It would probably take you less than an hour to walk its entire perimeter. Just white sand and a small copse of palm trees. We drift closer, the waves tugging us in.

The guy standing on the beach with a wooden fishing pole in his hands looks frighteningly skinny. From where we are, I can see the outline of his ribs and spine. There are loose flaps of skin on his arms and belly from where the weight came off too quick. More disconcerting are the dark patches of skin, like tumors, like hardened obsidian, that make a patchwork of his skin. Maybe that's a result of being drowned in Setrákus Ra's lake of ooze. Another permanent disfigurement to go with the missing eye.

That is most definitely Five standing there. There's no chance he doesn't see us. There aren't any other boats for as far as the eye can see. He probably heard us coming miles off.

“When I saw him die, John, all I could think was how horrible it was. To be killed in that way . . . ,”
Marina begins hesitantly, staring across the shallows at Five. “But I also felt—I am not proud to admit this—I also felt there was justice there. That he had at last gotten what was coming to him.”

Marina hugs herself. Even in the sun, a light frost forms on her skin.

“I've prayed, John. I've—I've tried to get over it, like so many of the others have done. But the deaths haunt me. Not just Eight, but Sarah and Mark, Adelina and Crayton, all those people we saw in the mountain, the millions killed in the bombardment. And I think—how can anyone just move on? How? When there are still people like him in the world? When there is no
justice
?”

I swallow hard. “I don't know, Marina.”

“I've been coming here for a week. Sitting out here. Watching him. He knows we're here, obviously, even if he doesn't say anything. It's like—it's like he's daring me. Or he's asking for it. He wants me to put him out of his misery.”

Looking across the water, Five does look to be in rough shape. Left to his own devices, I'm not sure how much longer he'll last out here.

“You told me, John, that it would be up to me what happens to him.
After
, you said. But I do not want that responsibility. I don't want to keep carrying this around—him, the war, all of it. It is too much to bear alone.”

I put my arms around Marina. She's cold to the touch, so I turn on my Lumen, counteracting her chill. She cries, one hard sob, and then claps a hand over her mouth. She steels herself, knowing that Five will probably hear.

“Let's get out of here,” I say, producing the last of my pendants. “Let me take you someplace where we can figure out what's next. Together.”

Marina hesitates, staring at Five. “What about him?”

“He's a ghost,” I reply. “We aren't.”

Marina comes back to the Himalayas with me. When she sees what I've done with the cave, with Eight's cave, she runs her hands across the places where the prophecies used to be etched, feeling the smoothness of new stone, the possibility of a blank canvas. She lets herself cry at last.

After that, Marina stands right in front of me. She reaches out and takes my face in her hands. “Thank you, John,” she says quietly. The tears haven't dried on her cheeks. I brush a streak away.

She kisses me. I don't know what it means.

Maybe nothing.

Marina blushes, smiles at me and slowly pulls away. I smile back. This Himalayan cave is suddenly a lot warmer.

Maybe something.

In the center of the cavern, I pull back the tarp to
show Marina what I've spent the last year working on. Carved from trees I cut down off the mountainside, it's a table that uses the Loralite stone as a base. It is huge and circular and modeled off my memories of the table in the center of the Elders' Chamber on Lorien. Like the pendants, I've used my Lumen to burn the Loric symbol for Unity into the wood.

Eventually, the others will come. Some of them only for a visit, some of them for a longer stay. One day, I hope, this will become a place where great ideas are exchanged. A place kept safe from the corruption and pettiness of governments. Where the safety of Earth and the happiness of its people are assured.

There are threats still facing this planet—ones that need a united front of Loric, humans and even Mogs. We will gather here to solve those problems—us, the Garde, our old allies and ones we haven't even met yet.

In the meantime, we have more than enough things to figure out, together and apart. Finding our places in this new world, making amends with those we've hurt, living up to our potential—these are the truly scary things.

There is one difference between the table I built here and the table used by the Elders. I didn't carve nine specific spaces in the wood. There's no spot for Loridas, or Setrákus or Pittacus. There aren't even nine
chairs. There's as many as we need there to be, more than enough room. And if it gets too crowded, we can squeeze.

I'm done with numbers.

DISCOVER WHAT HAPPENED BEHIND ENEMY LINES—FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF THE MOGADORIANS!

THE LORIC MAY CALL IT THEIR “SANCTUARY,”
but today it's a war zone.

Their people will die here.

Killing the last of the Garde has always been on the forefront of Mogadorian minds. I know
I've
thought much about it, at least. Not for my own vanity or sense of accomplishment, but because I know that it is the greatest way I can serve Beloved Leader. To please him.

That's all I want, all I need out of life.

There was a time when I thought I was close to receiving Setrákus Ra's favor. I'd worked my way through the ranks, showing my superiors how mercilessly I could deal with any who opposed us. How swiftly I could turn the vatborn into well-trained killing squads. Eventually I was given command of an entire platoon in our West Virginia base, where I could show Beloved Leader once and for all that I was his
most faithful, most capable commander.

But then I failed him. A few of the Garde scum under my watch escaped. I was disgraced, and given the choice to be put to death for my failures or restationed in Mexico, tasked with finding a way into an impenetrable Loric site. The decision seemed like an easy one. I chose the latter, hoping that I would be able to make up for my mistakes. Instead, I failed him again.

But that's all going to change. Beloved Leader is here now, and I will show him that I am worthy of being his disciple. He will witness me on the battlefield and see that I am the embodiment of what he preaches in the Great Book. I will show no mercy, spare no enemy.

“Protect Beloved Leader!” I shout as I run from my cover in the jungle, leading a small group of vatborn and trueborn soldiers I've rescued from Garde imprisonment. As we cross the battlefield, I see Number Six. One of my eyes is swollen shut thanks to the Loric bitch punching me while I was tied up earlier. She should have taken my trigger fingers—
killed
me if she was smart. I fire at her back. She goes down. I bare my teeth. I will make sure her death is slow and agonizing.

I will make Beloved Leader proud.

We charge forward. Ahead of us, our savior stands in a crater, holding the Garde called Marina in the air with his extraordinary powers. He bashes her into the
ground below over and over again until her body goes limp. The Loric and their allies may have destroyed the pipeline Setrákus Ra created to harvest the Loralite, but they're being beaten down, reminded of our superiority.

This is war. This is glory. This is Mogadorian Progress.

We continue our surge forward amid blaster fire from every direction. I reach Beloved Leader too late. One of the Loric allies—a human male with the audacity to use our own weapons against us—manages a lucky shot that scorches our infallible commander's ear. Had I been just a little faster on my feet, I could have thrown myself in front of the blast, happily dying to protect Beloved Leader from even the slightest pain. By the time I get to his side, he's already thrown Marina's broken body at the boy, sending them both rolling out of sight.

Up close, I can see blood dripping from a few wounds on our commander's body. He leans on a sword.

“Beloved Leader,” one of my fellow Mogadorians says, stepping forward and placing a hand on the commander's arm as if to help him stand.

Setrákus Ra responds by placing a palm on his underling's head. There's a half second when the soldier
looks like he's in ecstasy, like he's been blessed. Then the hand on his head clenches into a fist, the trooper's skull caving in like a piece of rotten fruit before turning to dust.

Our Beloved Leader needs no help. These injuries are nothing to him.

“Back to the ship,” he growls. “We'll make them feel our power.”

“You heard our glorious leader,” I shout. “Hold nothing back!”

Weapon fire continues to fill the air, coming from all sides, even from the
Anubis
itself. There are painful wounds on my hands from getting too close to the force field around the Sanctuary, but I don't let this slow me down. I shoot constantly. I know Beloved Leader doesn't need my help, but I show him my loyalty by being front and center as we march out of the crater, taking any harm meant for him. The other troops fall in line too, forming a ring around him as we move.

We will serve him until we are nothing but dust.

“I will destroy every speck of life for miles,” Beloved Leader growls as we start up the ship's ramp. “Everything beneath us will burn, and once we've wiped out the Loric and their allies, I'll dig the remnants of the Sanctuary from the ground myself.”

“Not even their bones will remain,” I say.

We're near the top of the ramp when something in the air changes.

Wind hits us, a hurricane gale that must be the work of the Garde. Debris—rocks, metal, biting sand—slams into us, causing me to cover my face with my arms as I take a few steps backwards, trying to brace myself.

Beloved Leader stands strong, though. He turns to face the wind and holds a hand out, palm open. The wind fighting against us dies down, but I can feel some other force in the air as he grins. He is so powerful, his might driving our enemies back. The battlefield of the Sanctuary explodes with shrapnel and chunks of stones.

This is what our victory looks like.

Beside me, Beloved Leader laughs.

I see the projectile too late—I am
always
too late. It's hardly a glint of metal in the air before it hits him; a piece of the broken pipeline is buried in Beloved Leader's chest.

The sound of his laughter turns into a gasp as he doubles over, stumbling back.

“No!” I scream, rushing back to his side.

In that moment, despite the blasters continuing to sound around us, there is only me and Setrákus Ra, huddled together in the entryway of the
Anubis
, my body blocking him from further attacks. The rest of the
world—the universe—ceases to exist.

He looks down at the shrapnel in his chest and then up at me.

“Inside,” he grunts, dark blood dripping over his lips.

I move as quickly as I can, shouting to the others to help me. We pull him into his ship. We're barely clear when I slam a hand down on the controls that close the loading door, shielding us.

Chaos breaks out in the loading area as all the troops start shouting at once. One of the low-ranking trueborn steps forward.

“We should pull the pipe out, right?” he asks, a little uncertain.

“You won't touch him,” I say.

“If
I
were him, I'd want—”

“But you are
not
him.” I fire one shot directly into the soldier's head. His augmentations begin to disintegrate before he hits the ground. The others back away. I am a trueborn commander, and even if my military record has been tarnished as of late, I'm likely the highest-ranking person in the docking bay.

Other than Beloved Leader, long may he reign.

The front of his armor is slick with inky blood leaking from the wound. There's something strange in his eyes, so unexpected from him that it takes me a moment to recognize the emotion as shock.

He struggles to get up, batting away the troops who try to offer him assistance. His eyes meet mine, and he whispers two words.

“Crush them.”

Then he collapses onto the floor.