United as One Read online

  She wants me to know how hopeless this is.

  Finally, standing right in front of the elevator is the Piken-Mog. The other three Augments I’ve noticed at least still mostly look like Mogadorians. This one is freakish, with a normal-sized lower body attached to a torso that is completely disproportioned. He stands about eight feet tall despite a hunched back, his skin is the leathery gray of a piken and he’s got the steroidal muscles to match. His fingers are long, thick and tipped with razor-sharp claws. His head, buried as it is in a throbbing mass of neck muscles, is regular-sized except for his jaw, which has grown out from his face, creating a fanged under bite. Most disgusting of all is that it’s possible to see the seams where his pale Mog skin stretched and ripped across this new body.

  He looks like he’s in pain, and he looks like he’s furious about it. He grunts and shifts from foot to foot, waiting for an order.

  I watch as Phiri makes note of one of the security cameras. She doesn’t seem concerned. “Surely they know we’re here by now,” she says, then turns to the Piken-Mog. “Go down there and say hello.”

  The Piken-Mog replies with a moan, then pries open the elevator door and hops down the shaft.

  Soon, through the floor, I hear gunfire and screaming.

  With a smile, Phiri Dun-Ra looks at me.

  “How many Garde are here, hmm?” she asks me. “How many of your friends do I get to eradicate today?”

  “I’m not . . . I’m not telling you shit.”

  Phiri rolls her eyes and pulls a blaster off her hip. She points it at the back of Mark’s head.

  “Want to tell me now?” she asks me, jabbing the base of Mark’s skull with her gun.

  When he feels the muzzle against his head, Mark manages to jerk away. Something inside him, a survival instinct, lets him fight the Thin Mog’s control. He drops the noose, fingers flexing like he’s finally got feeling back in his hands, and turns on Phiri Dun-Ra. He takes a halting step towards the woman. That’s all he can manage. Saliva flecks from his lips as he growls, the strain of battling against the Mogadorian mind control evident. Phiri doesn’t even flinch.

  She glances at the Thin Mog. “He’s fighting you.”

  “He will give his fragile brain an aneurysm before he overcomes my will,” the Thin Mog replies simply.

  The Thin Mog’s eyes narrow, and Mark’s every muscle goes rigid, like he’s been electrocuted. He stands up on his tiptoes, unnaturally taut, joints popping and teeth clenched. He lets out a strangled cry.

  “See?” the Thin Mog says.

  Phiri Dun-Ra holsters her blaster and crouches over me. “Truth is, it doesn’t matter how many of your friends are down there. We’re going to kill them regardless. I just enjoy watching you squirm.”

  Up close, the mass of ooze that’s replaced Phiri’s arm smells like rotten meat. If she’d only move a little closer, get a little more in my face . . .

  “You know, John, our paths intersected once before,” she continues. “I was in charge of operations in West Virginia when you helped Number Nine escape. Did you know that? That . . . unfortunate incident got me sent down to Mexico as punishment. Forced to work on the impossible problem of the Sanctuary. Turns out, all I had to do was wait for you idiot Loric to show up.”

  She stands back up and holds out her arms, the tentacles burrowed into me twisting and pulling. I’m glad for the pain; it makes it easy to hide my disappointment. I almost had a shot at her.

  I’ve got one desperate play. One trick literally hidden up my sleeve. The Mogs were too confident in their control to check me for weapons. I’ve still got Five’s blade sheathed against my forearm.

  I just need an opportune time to strike.

  “What is it the humans love to say? Everything happens for a reason.” Phiri chuckles, going on. “Look at how far I’ve come, John. In a way, it’s all thanks to you.”

  I grit my teeth and meet her eyes. “You won’t . . . you won’t win.”

  “Mm-hmm, Mr. Big Hero. You’re going to find a way to save them all, right?” Phiri glances over at Mark, still frozen in that awkward position, still shaking lightly as he fights against the Thin Mog’s control. “Let’s see.”

  The tentacle buried in my armpit yanks loose. It’s a momentary relief from the pain. I watch as Phiri’s writhing limb snaps through the air, its end sharpened like a dagger.

  There’s nothing I can do. It happens too fast.

  Phiri drives the tentacle into the underside of Mark’s jaw and through the top of his head. He spasms once, his eyes wide but unseeing. She holds him up there for a moment, pierced by her tentacle, so that I can get a look at him. Then she pulls free and lets Mark’s body drop to the floor next to me.

  I scream. In rage, in pain, in terror.

  “Oh-for-one,” Phiri says to me.

  I clamp my mouth closed. I can’t take my eyes off Mark’s body, his dead eyes staring right at me. This is my fault.

  Hell with this. If I’m going to die, it’s going to be on my terms.

  With a burst of motion, I pop Five’s blade from its forearm sheath and slice it through the two tentacles still piercing me. She screams and recoils. The oozing appendages sizzle when they hit the floor. Already, barely seconds after I chop them off, the tentacles start to regenerate.

  I had hoped that my Legacies would come flooding back to me. That’s not the case. There’s still remnants of Phiri Dun-Ra writhing inside me. I can feel my healing Legacy kick in, trying to fight them off. I scramble to my feet and attempt to generate a fireball or to turn on my stone-vision. Those powers don’t respond. They put too much physical strain on my body, which is still too drained from the attack.

  A vatborn clocks me in the head with his blaster. I’m falling right back to the floor. Time seems to slow down.

  My telepathy. I can at least use that. Even though my body is weakened, my mind is sound.

  As soon as I open my mind, I shudder. There’s so much fear and pain radiating from the sublevels of Patience Creek that seep in when I use my telepathy. I steel myself, focus and reach towards a mind that I’m relieved is still out there.

  Sam! I shout telepathically.

  I can sense where he’s at. Running down a hallway, Malcolm next to him, a handful of scientists and soldiers on either side. Sam’s got a heavy weight on his back—a pack filled with random electronics, mostly cell phones.

  His experiment with his tech Legacy. It must have worked. And now it could be doomed. . . .

  John? Am I hallucinating this? Sam thinks back.

  No, I’m upstairs.

  Oh, thank God—

  They’ve got me, I tell Sam. Mark led them here. Not by choice. They’ve got Leg—augmentations.

  Holy shit—Mark—they’re trapping us down here. Sam’s thoughts come in a jumbled rush. I sense him skid to a stop, Malcolm grabbing him by the arm. I’m coming to help you, John. I’m coming!

  No! I think back, weighing Sam’s chances against the Mogs versus the value of what he’s carrying, the importance of preserving his Legacy. It could be humanity’s best hope. You have to escape! There’s a mass of them at the underground exit, but I think most of the ones that have powers are with me. Find a way to get through and—

  I don’t get to finish that thought. A fresh jolt of pain stabs through me, Phiri’s tentacles making three new holes in my back. Only seconds have passed. Once again, my Legacies feel out of reach. A group of vatborn pin me to the ground and rip away Five’s blade.

  “Nice try,” Phiri says with a gloating smile. She picks up the end of the noose dropped by Mark, and I brace myself for what comes next. Phiri seems to know exactly what I’m expecting because her smile only widens. “Oh no, John. You don’t get to die yet.”

  She drags me forward. I scramble along after her since the alternative is a slashed throat.

  The elevator is waiting and open. There’s a pool of fresh blood on the floor and dents in its walls. Whoever was defending the elevator downstairs must have
fallen prey to the Piken-Mog.

  “Come on; let’s go say hello to your friends,” Phiri says.

  Phiri, Thin Mog and a squadron of vatborn surround me in the elevator. We descend a few floors. I try to get a look at where exactly we are but can’t be sure. All the halls down here look alike. Where are Lawson and Walker? The human Garde? Sam and Malcolm?

  I hope they’re on a different floor. I hope they’re finding a way out.

  The vatborn take the lead, Phiri and the Thin Mog behind them, and me forced to crawl alongside Phiri. They don’t meet any resistance outside the elevator. We pass by a few bodies—soldiers—that have been practically ripped limb from limb.

  “I hope he left some for us,” the Thin Mog says dryly.

  The first shots are fired as we round a corner. A handful of marines are hunkered down in a kitchenette and manage to gun down a few vatborn. The Mogs return fire, but the soldiers have dumped furniture across the hallway and take cover behind it.

  “Get them,” Phiri Dun-Ra says.

  The Thin Mog smiles. He cups his hands in front of his mouth and blows out. Tiny black spores rise up from his palms and float down the hallway. I try to yell out a warning, but Phiri twists her tentacles inside me. The soldiers are completely unprepared for this kind of fight. How could they be? I’ve never seen anything like it either. The spores head right for them, like they’ve got a mind of their own, slipping through gaps in the barricade. I can’t see exactly what happens, but I can hear gagging noises. Then, silence.

  The Thin Mog makes a lifting motion with his hands, and the marines stand up as one. Black veins have spread beneath the skin on their faces. They move the same way Mark did, like puppets, their eyes completely terrified as their bodies act out the Thin Mog’s commands.

  Now, the squadron of marines leads the way for the Mogadorians.

  Soon, we encounter another group of soldiers trying to lock down a hallway. They hesitate, seeing their friends walking towards them.

  “Kill them,” whispers the Thin Mog.

  Without hesitation, the mind-controlled marines let loose on their comrades, shooting indiscriminately. The vatborn Mogs watch with glee. The hallway fills with smoke from all the shooting. Phiri Dun-Ra laughs as I look away.

  “Isn’t this fun?” she asks.

  Suddenly, every mind-controlled marine’s assault rifle is ripped from his hand by an unseen force. The vatborn raise their blasters and are summarily disarmed as well.

  Telekinesis.

  It’s just like Nine taught them. Disarm your opponents.

  “Bloody hell,” I hear Nigel’s voice. “Careful, Ran, those are friendlies!”

  A moment later, when the hallway explodes, I know the Japanese girl didn’t listen.

  Ran must have thrown one of her charged projectiles, because bodies fly everywhere. Some of them are the mind-controlled soldiers and some of them are vatborn, many of the latter disintegrating from the force. I’m tossed backwards as well, and I can feel the noose gouging my neck as a result, warm blood pouring down my shoulder. I’m only alive because the impact caused Phiri Dun-Ra to let go of the leash.

  My ears ring. The hallway is even smokier than before. I catch sight of the Thin Mog and some disarmed vatborn taking cover in an empty room off the hallway. I try to crawl away, but Phiri’s tentacles are still piercing me. She’s nowhere in sight and I’m still stuck to her somehow.

  At least I can get rid of this noose. I reach up to pull it off.

  Wait.

  I’ve lost sight of myself. I can’t see my hands, my arms, my . . .

  We’re invisible.

  Phiri Dun-Ra is using my Legacy. She’s making us invisible.

  We flicker back to visibility for a moment. Phiri’s control is shaky. But she spots me messing with the noose, and immediately her tentacles twist inside me. My hands drop away from my neck and clutch at my midsection.

  Then we’re invisible again.

  As the smoke begins to clear, I see Ran and Nigel inching their way down the hallway. Fleur and Bertrand are with them too. All of them are armed with assault rifles except for Ran; she’s got an old paperback novel clutched in her hands, the thing glowing, charged with her explosive Legacy. They’ve already got plenty of scrapes and cuts, and all of them look pretty shaky.

  They’re walking right towards me, which means they’re walking right towards Phiri Dun-Ra.

  “Look out!” I scream. “Get back!”

  As a group, they jump at the sound of my voice. But they can’t see me.

  And now it’s too late.

  Phiri Dun-Ra appears from thin air. So do I, and the sight of me—leashed, impaled, on all fours—is exactly the distraction the Mogs need. All four of the human Garde look at me in shock and terror. Even Ran lets the glow fade from her projectile.

  “Jo—John?” Nigel stammers, wide-eyed.

  “RUN!” I shout in response, even though I know it’s too late.

  Before the others can act, Phiri Dun-Ra unloads.

  First, she extends her hand palm out towards Fleur. Six icicles, jagged and sharp, the frozen water not clear like when Marina or I use this Legacy but tinged an ugly rust color, rocket into Fleur’s chest. The girl crumples with a gasp that’s wet with blood.

  “No! Fleur!” Bertrand shouts. The kid tries to do something heroic. He reaches down and grabs Fleur around the shoulders, attempts to drag her out of harm’s way.

  Phiri Dun-Ra engulfs them both in a fireball, the flames tinged purple and smelling like burned tires.

  These are bastardized versions of my Legacies she’s using to kill the human Garde I was stupid enough to invite here. The ones I swore to train and protect. I want to close my eyes and stop watching.

  “You bitch!” Nigel screams, his eyes filled with tears. He manages to raise his gun, but Phiri Dun-Ra twists the barrel down with telekinesis. When he pulls the trigger, the weapon backfires in his hands. Nigel cries out. I’m not sure where he’s hit or how bad—it won’t matter in a moment.

  Except there’s Ran. Luckily, Nigel stumbles backwards into her. She grabs him by the scruff of the neck and slings him down an adjoining hallway. With a parting glance at me, Ran does what I told her. She runs, pushing the injured Nigel along as she goes, just ahead of another one of Phiri Dun-Ra’s fireballs.

  She starts after them, but I put my weight down. Her tentacles dig deeper into my body, and I can taste blood in my mouth. I slow her down, though, and knowing that she needs to stay connected to me to maintain my stolen Legacies, she doesn’t give chase.

  “You are only delaying the inevitable, John,” she says. Phiri looks down at the two bodies—Bertrand and Fleur, barely recognizable, their skin charred black—and a new tentacle juts out from her oily mass of an arm, probing around them. She sighs. “The spark in these two had barely even started, hmm?”

  “You picked them before they were ripe,” says the Thin Mog as he and the other vatborn emerge from the room where they’d taken cover. The vatborn scramble around, grabbing their blasters.

  Phiri Dun-Ra picks up my leash—I never got it over my head—and shrugs at the Thin Mog. She looks down at me. “I wonder, is this how you felt as you slaughtered your way through our warship?” She makes a sound that’s close to purring. “Did you enjoy that as much as I am enjoying this?”

  She gives my noose a tug, and we’re moving again. As she drags me past Bertrand and Fleur, I reach towards them. I know it’s futile—I’m cut off from my Legacies as long as Phiri Dun-Ra has control of me—but I harbor a desperate hope that I’ll somehow be able to push some of my healing Legacy into them. My fingers barely manage to graze Fleur’s shoulder; nothing happens, and then I’m forced onwards.

  We turn down the hallway where Nigel and Ran fled, the vatborn once again leading the way. At this point, the only thing I can do to help is slow the Mogs’ pace. Ignoring the bite of the Voron collar, I follow Phiri’s lead as slowly as I can.

  It’s not entirely a defensive
strategy, I realize as my vision begins to swim. I’m losing a lot of blood. At one point, I fall down on my elbows and hear something in my shoulder crack. There’s so much pain and I’m so disoriented, I’m not even sure where we are in Patience Creek anymore.

  I can’t believe this is how it ends.

  The sound of fighting rings out from all around the base. Distantly, I’m aware of shooting and screaming. Echoes of losing battles nearby. We stick to the quiet halls, hunting stragglers.

  “There!” the Thin Mog shouts.

  I look up just in time, peering between Phiri Dun-Ra’s legs, as a lone person skids into view. The vatborn immediately take aim and open fire.

  “Shit!” Sam yelps as he dives for cover around a corner.

  Oh no. Not Sam. Please not Sam. I don’t want to see this.

  He didn’t run like I’d told him. He didn’t escape. He’s alone now. I don’t know what happened to Malcolm and the other scientists, to the Chimærae that were with them, but I can’t help but imagine the worst. Before he disappears from view, I notice that Sam’s not wearing that heavy backpack anymore. Maybe he stashed it somewhere, or maybe it got lost during the fighting.

  The vatborn charge after Sam. They have to jump back when he uses a blaster to blind-fire around the corner.

  “John?” he yells. “Is that you?”

  “Sam . . . ,” I gasp weakly. “Sam, get out of here.”

  “I’m going to save you, John!” he shouts back.

  Phiri Dun-Ra giggles. “Oh, how touching. Get this one and bring him to me. I want to make it slow.”

  As ordered, the warriors barrel heedlessly around the corner. Phiri, the Thin Mog, a handful of vatborn and I bring up the rear, safe from any stray blaster fire. I can hear Sam’s footsteps pounding down the hallway, sprinting away from his attackers.

  “Lights off!” he shouts breathlessly. “Lights off!”