Lorien Legacies: The Lost Files (63 page)

But then One’s face enters my mind again—her wry, affectionate eye roll, the way she would look at me like,
Really? That’s all you’ve got?
And something occurs to me. It’s
not
all I’ve got. Not anymore. I may not have strength, but I
do
have power.

I focus on the rocks around me, knowing that, with my Legacy—the Legacy that One gave me—I can shake all this debris clear. I close my eyes and focus on it, picturing the rubble shaking and splitting, moving away from me until I’m free.

Nothing happens. It doesn’t budge.
Move, dammit,
I think, and then I realize that I’ve actually said the words aloud without meaning to. Either way, the rocks don’t pay any attention.

Suddenly I’m angry. First I’m angry at myself: for being so stupid, for being so weak, for not having mastered the gift that One gave me. For getting myself to this place at all.

But it isn’t my fault. I was only trying to do what was right. It’s not myself I should be angry at—it’s my people, the Mogadorians who got me here. The Mogadorians, who worship brute force and believe that war is a way of life.

Soon I can feel my rage coursing through my body. Nothing in my life has ever been fair. I never had a shot at all. I think about Ivan, who was a best friend to me. We grew up together, and then he betrayed me. He tried to kill me—more than once.

I think about my father, who didn’t think twice
about letting the Mogadorian scientists experiment on me with machines that had been completely untested and came close to frying my brain. It was nothing to him to risk sacrificing me for
the cause
.

And what cause was that? The cause of creating more destruction, of killing more people and gaining more power for himself. But power over what? When we’d conquered Lorien, we’d left it a lifeless, destroyed husk of a planet. There was nothing left on Lorien to rule. Was that what we were going to do to Earth too?

For people like my father, that’s not the point. The point is war. The point is winning. To him, I was just another potential weapon to be used and discarded. That’s all anyone’s ever been worth to him.

The more I think about it, the more I feel my mind racing with rage. I hate him. I hate Ivan. I hate Setrákus Ra and the Good Book for teaching them all that this is the right way to live. I hate them all.

My fingers and toes start to tingle. I feel the rocks around me start to tremble. I’m doing it. My Legacy is working. You can let your anger destroy you, or you can use it for something. I close my eyes again, clench my fists and scream as loud as I can, letting all my fury out in one big burst. And with a massive whoosh, the dirt and stone and rubble begin to crumble. My body is shaking all over, and the ground is shaking too. Before long, it’s all slid away, and I’m free again. It’s as if a
giant shovel has scooped me out.

But someone else isn’t as lucky. Not ten feet away from me, a Mogadorian soldier is wedged beneath what looks like part of a shattered steel doorframe.

He groans and stirs now that the weight’s been lifted.

He’s as alive as I am. Awesome.

CHAPTER TWO

I PULL MYSELF TO MY FEET, STAGGERING A bit. My whole body aches like I’ve just been squeezed in a giant vise, but I don’t think anything’s broken. I’m covered in dirt and dust and sweat and, yes, some blood, but not a lot of that either. Somehow, I’ve managed to avoid any serious injury. I don’t know how, and I don’t really care.

The other Mogadorian isn’t so lucky. As I stand, he lets out a low groan, but he doesn’t look up at me or move. He’s so beaten up that he barely seems to realize he’s not buried anymore. I don’t even think he realizes I’m here.

He must have gotten hit pretty hard, because this guy doesn’t look like the type who would be easy to take out. He’s as big as Ivan and built like a pro linebacker, with a thick neck and bulging muscles, but I can tell even from here that he’s not vatborn—his
facial features are too clean lined and too even to be one of the genetically altered warriors who make up the majority of the Mogadorians’ army.

This one is a trueborn, like me. Like my father. From the tattoo on his skull I can tell that he’s an officer, not a grunt. It figures. The vatborn are bred to be cannon fodder, while the trueborn give the orders. Maybe that’s why I don’t remember seeing him while I was holding back the troops. Unlike Ivan, who charged after me and got himself killed as a result, this guy must’ve been leading from the rear.

I actually feel a stab of disgust at the thought. A good commander leads by example, not by cowering behind his men. Not that it did him much good. Anyway, none of it matters much. I need to figure out what I’m going to do with him.

First things first: I check him over for any weapons. He grunts a little as I pat him down, and his eyes flutter for a moment, but he doesn’t resist my search. Not that I find anything useful on him—if he had a blaster it’s long gone, and he doesn’t seem to have a knife on him either. I don’t find so much as a breath mint in his pockets. Which, from the foul stench of the air emitting from his mouth in wheezing bursts, would probably do him more good than a weapon right about now.

The one thing that I can’t help but notice is the blood. This guy’s practically covered in it. It’s seeping
out from under the dust and dirt that coat his pale skin, and staining through the torn-up clothes he still has on. I don’t see any one big injury, but he’s a mess for sure.

When I’m satisfied that he’s not going to jump to his feet and take me down the moment I turn my back on him, I look around the area I’m standing in and try to get my bearings. The bulk of Dulce Base was built underground to keep it away from prying eyes, but I guess my little stunt changed all that. I’m standing in a giant crater at least a hundred feet across at the top, and there’s a clear blue sky above. The only problem is, I’m at least twenty feet down from where rock ends and sky begins.

The wreckage is everywhere—rocks and cement and toppled columns, busted computers and equipment with their exposed electrical wires sparking dangerously. When I smell the familiar stench of gasoline, I realize that I’m basically standing in the middle of a huge powder keg. This place could go up in flames at any second. It’s sort of a miracle there haven’t been any more explosions yet.

I have to get out of here quick. Luckily, despite the fact that we’re so far down, there’s so much debris piled high in every direction that I figure it won’t be too hard to climb my way to the surface.

I figure out which direction will be the easiest to negotiate, and start to head that way—and then
stop. I look behind me, at the guy lying there on the ground—the Mogadorian who still hasn’t stirred beyond a groan.

I could leave him here to die alone. I have myself to worry about, and besides, one more dead Mogadorian is a good thing. But something stops me.

It’s not that I’m just being nice. It’s way too late to start having moral qualms now. After all, I’ve killed more than my share of Mogs since all this started.

For a moment I wonder if my dad ever would have guessed that I had it in me. I wonder if it would give him even a tiny bit of pride if he knew.

Of course, my dad’s pride is the last thing I’m looking for now. That’s not why I decide to turn back, though. Instead, it’s because I know that a single, unarmed Mogadorian officer can do me more good alive than he can dead. For one thing, if he was stationed here he’ll know his way around the surrounding area and any nearby towns. Deep in the middle of the desert, without even a compass to guide me, that stuff matters if I want to get out alive.

So I head back to the guy, grab him under the arms and start hauling him along.

This guy’s really heavy, and it’s all I can do to drag him over the craggy piles of junk and rocks as we make our way across the vast expanse of the base’s ruins towards the edge of the crater. The sun is higher
in the sky now and we’re completely exposed to it. I feel a bead of sweat forming at my brow and making its way down my face and then, before I know it, I’m completely drenched. I try to clear a path as I move, kicking aside dusty monitors and crushed aluminum piping and whatever else is blocking the way.

Not that it does much good. Within minutes, my arms feel like noodles, my legs hurt and my back is killing me. We’re not even halfway to where we need to be. This isn’t going to work. Finally, when I drop the Mogadorian to the ground to catch my breath, he stirs.

“Hey,” I say. “Can you hear me?”

“Uhhhrm,” he replies. Well, it’s not that helpful, but it’s better than nothing, I figure.

“Hey, listen,” I try again. “We’ve got to get out of here. Can you walk?”

He peers up at me, his heavy brow furrowed, and I can guess why. He’s trying to figure out who I am and what I’m doing here. I’m covered in grime, so he probably can’t tell that I don’t have the skull tattoo that denotes Mogadorian rank, and he looks up at me in confusion.

I don’t have time for him to be confused, or time for him to come to his senses—assuming he ever will. We have to get out of here
now.
I have no idea whether there are any others still alive elsewhere on the base, or if reinforcements are on the way. Plus, I’m half expecting
the whole place to go up flames at any second. That’s
if
I don’t die of thirst before it happened.

I try a different tack. I speak to him in our native Mogadorian tongue, the language that’s mostly only ever used now for ceremonial purposes. I quote the Good Book. “
Strength is sacred
,” I say. It’s one of the most important tenets in Mogadorian society. His eyes come into focus.

“On your feet, soldier!” I snap. I’m only half surprised when it does the trick and he slowly levers himself up onto one knee and raises himself to his feet. Typical Mogadorian—there’s nothing my people respond to more enthusiastically than empty authority. He’s swaying a bit as he comes to a standing position. His left arm is hanging funny, and he’s pale, sweat popping out across his forehead and along his upper lip, but he’s up. For now.

“Let’s go,” I tell him, pointing towards the opening high above. “March.” Without a word, he lumbers past me.

I follow him, realizing that I’m not in much better shape than he is. As we scramble over the heaps of rubble, I find myself thinking of Sam and Malcolm. I hope they made it out of here okay. My cell phone got crushed when I brought down the base, so I can’t call Malcolm to find out what happened, arrange somewhere to meet up or even ask for help. All I can do is have some hope.

It feels like hours before we finally come to the edge of the blown-out base, though the sun is still high in the sky so it can’t have been that long. So far none of my fears has come to pass: there have been no explosions or fires and no sign of Mogadorians coming back to dig through the wreckage.

The pit is deeper than it appeared earlier, and I look up and see exactly how far we have to climb to get out of here. Luckily there’s enough junk piled up around the edge that we’ll be able to find a path to the top, but it won’t be easy.

Is anything ever easy?

I’m soaked in sweat, though, and practically panting for air as we pull ourselves up the side of the cliff, using toppled girders and jutting pieces of cement and whatever we can find to use as handholds. My new best friend is pushing through the pain, his black eyes glassy and unfocused, but he’s doing it. I’m embarrassed to see that even in this state he’s still at least as strong as I am.

I’m guessing he took a blow to the head from the explosion. The good news is, it’s made him nice and docile—when I tell him to do something, he does it. The bad news is, he has no idea what he’s doing. I need him alive, so I’ve got to keep a close eye on him every second in case he does something stupid.

“What’s your name?” I ask him once I’ve got my
breath back. Might as well know who I’m dealing with.

“Rexicus Saturnus,” he answers after a minute. The name sounds vaguely familiar. He doesn’t look that much older than me, and I wonder if I’d ever seen him when I lived at home with my parents and sister. Ashwood
is
the largest Mogadorian community on Earth, after all, so there’s a good chance he grew up there too. Even if he was a bit older than me, I’d have seen him around occasionally, or heard his name. I study his face, though, and find that I don’t recognize him it all. “They call me Rex.”

I just nod. There’s nothing to say right now. We just have to keep climbing. So we climb.

And then, after who knows how much time, we emerge from the pit and stumble over the edge into a vast desert. I didn’t think it would be possible, but the sun on my brow feels even hotter than before.

I only take a few seconds to rest and catch my breath before I dust myself off and scan the horizon, looking for something—anything—other than dirt and rocks, and after a minute, my eyes settle on what looks like a small building. I don’t know what we’ll find—there could still be Mogadorians inside, for all I know—but I decide I don’t have much choice, especially if it means finding water and some respite from the heat.

“All right then, Rex,” I say, pointing to the building in the distance. “Let’s get moving. That way.”

He just nods and starts walking. I follow him, wondering again if I’m doing the right thing. It would be so easy to kill him. For now he’s weak, his reflexes dulled, his mind fuzzy. It would take nothing for me to sneak up behind him and get rid of him once and for all. This could be my only chance. Once he’s recovered, he’d be able to overpower me easily. Then he might not think twice before killing
me.

But he’s a Mogadorian officer. I have no idea what information he has or how valuable he is to my people. All I know is that if he knows anything that can help Malcolm and the Loric people, it’s worth it to keep him alive even if it means risking my own neck. It’s what One would want.

CHAPTER THREE

MY FEET FEEL LIKE THEY’RE MADE OF LEAD; it’s a supreme effort to lift each one and set it back down. My head is throbbing, my tongue feels swollen and my nose is so dry it hurts to breathe in through it, but my throat is coated with sand and swallowing makes me want to retch. My skin is tight and crinkly, and I itch everywhere—when I glance at my arm I realize it’s bright red, the harsh sunlight already burning me. Every movement sends little jolts of pain washing across my every joint, over every inch of exposed flesh. I can’t see straight—the desert stretches out ahead of me, and the building we’re heading towards doesn’t seem to be getting closer. In fact, part of me is starting to wonder if it’s even real. When I stare at it for too long it begins to waver, like it’s just a mirage that will always remain a few thousand paces in the distance.