The Fallen Legacies (2 page)

Ashwood Estates is identical to many of the wealthy gated communities outside of Washington—or at least it
looks
identical. But instead of being owned by politicians and their families, the mansions and immaculately maintained lawns behind the front gates are owned by my people, the Mogadorians, Earth’s soon-to-be conquerors. And the homes themselves are only a tiny part of the
real
Ashwood Estates. Underneath the houses is a huge maze of tunnels that connect the many Mogadorian facilities that are the true purpose of this place.

I’ve only been granted access to small parts of our underground headquarters. I have no idea how far they extend or how deep below the Earth they reach. But I know that this sprawling underground network houses many laboratories, weapons stores, training facilities and probably more secrets that I can’t yet begin to guess at. It’s also down there that the vat-born live.

If it wasn’t for our Beloved Leader, Setrákus Ra, the Mogadorian race would have never survived long enough to begin the Great Expansion. Over the last hundred years, for reasons that are still mostly unknown, it has become more and more difficult for Mogadorians to bear children. By the time Kelly was born, natural Mogadorian births were so rare that our ancient, proud species was in grave danger of dying out entirely. When children
were
able to be conceived, Mogadorian women, like Ivan’s mother, often died during childbirth. Because of this, Setrákus Ra and a team of scientists had been working to artificially breed a new generation of Mogadorians. Rather than being birthed in the usual way, our vat-born Mogadorian brothers and sisters are grown in giant chemical vats, from which they eventually emerge, fully grown and ready for battle. These vat-born not only ensure the continued existence of Mogadorian life but, with their heightened strength, speed and stamina, are also the backbone of our army.

Besides their increased physical prowess, the vat-born are different from trueborn Mogadorians like me in other ways too. They’ve been engineered to be physically suited for war, but to be soldiers rather than officers. In his wisdom, Setrákus Ra has created them to be more single-minded than trueborn Mogadorians—almost machine-like in their adherence to the tasks they’re assigned—and as natural warriors, what they have in the way of rational thought often gives way to rage and bloodlust. But the most important difference between the vat-born and the trueborn, at least here on Earth, is the fact that they look different from the rest of us. While the trueborn are able to pass amid humans, the vat-born are not. Their skin is ghostly pale from subterranean living, and their teeth are small and sharp for close combat rather than eating. This is why, until we are able to reveal ourselves, they are only rarely allowed to show their faces in daylight.

So when I see the vat-born openly celebrating on the lawns of Ashwood Estates alongside their trueborn betters, I know something huge is happening.

Ivan knows it too, and gives me a befuddled look as he skids to a stop in our cul-de-sac. I pull up beside him, catching my breath. All of the families of Ashwood Estates are in front of their homes, mingling with each other, raising toasts from freshly opened bottles of champagne. The vat-born, with their jarringly pale skin hidden beneath trench coats and hats, look both excited and disoriented to be out in the open. The air of jubilation is unusual in Mogadorian culture. Normally my people are not given to open displays of joy, especially with the General in the vicinity.

“What the hell is going on?” Ivan asks, as usual looking to me for answers. This time I just shrug back at him.

My mother is sitting on our front steps, watching with a small smile as Kelly dances wildly across the front yard. My sister, spinning maniacally, doesn’t even notice when Ivan and I arrive.

My mother looks relieved to see us approach. Though I don’t know what the celebration is for, I do know why she wouldn’t have joined the other revelers out on the lawns and street. Being the wife of the General makes it difficult for her to make friends, even with other trueborns. Their fear of my father extends to my mother.

“Boys,” she says as Ivan and I roll our bikes up the front walk. “He’s been looking for you. You know he doesn’t like to wait.”

“Why does he need to see us?” I ask.

Before my mother can answer, the General appears in the doorway behind her. My father is a large man, standing close to seven feet tall, muscular, with a regal posture that demands respect. His face is all sharp angles, a feature I’ve unfortunately inherited from him. Since coming to Earth, he’s grown his black hair out to hide the tattoos on his scalp, and he keeps it neatly slicked back, like some of the politicians I’ve seen striding across the National Mall.

“Adamus,” he says in a tone that brooks no questioning. “Come with me. You too, Ivanick.”

“Yes, sir,” Ivan and I reply in unison, exchanging a nervous glance with each other before stepping into the house. When my father uses that tone of voice, it means something serious is happening. As I pass, my mother gives my hand a gentle squeeze.

“Have fun in Malaysia!” shouts Kelly at our backs, having finally noticed us. “Kill that Garde as hard as you can!”

CHAPTER 3

A few hours later, Ivan and I are headed for Malaysia on board a cold and uncomfortable plane that was purchased as surplus from some government that doesn’t ask a lot of questions. The passenger area doesn’t look all that different from the cargo hold below—just metal benches with worn seat belts, where Ivan and I sit, crammed among the warriors, some of them trueborn, most vat-born. Our ride isn’t glamorous, but I’m too nervous to worry about comfort. This is the first time I’ve been taken on a mission, even if my purpose is only to observe.

My father flies copilot. Whenever the plane’s course becomes momentarily shaky, I wonder if it’s a change in the atmospheric conditions or if it’s just that my father’s made the pilot nervous.

For many of the Mogadorians on the plane, this is their first action since the First Great Expansion. Some of them spend the flight reminiscing about the last time they fought, bragging about their many kills. Others, the older ones, stay quiet, completely focused on the mission, staring into space.

“Do you think we’ll get to shoot any guns?” Ivan asks me.

“I doubt it,” I reply. We’re along for this mission simply because I’m the General’s son and Ivan his ward. We’re too young to be of any real use to the strike team, but not too young to watch the execution of this Loric insurgent from a distance. My father wants us to learn from it. As our instructors always tell us, the combat simulations we run in battle preparedness class—where we
do
get to shoot guns—are no substitution for the real thing.

“That sucks,” grumbles Ivan.

“Whatever,” I say, shifting and trying to stretch my legs out. “I just can’t wait to get off this plane.”

Everything next happens in a blur. We land. We find the Garde and her Cêpan. As instructed, Ivan and I hang back, watching with the General as the Mogadorian warriors go into battle. It’s an ugly thing, not at all like the battles described in the Great Book. Two dozen Mogadorians against an old woman and a teenage girl.

At first our goal is simply to capture and interrogate these two. There have been whispers since we came to Earth of some kind of Loric magic that protects the Garde, forcing us to kill them in order. There was talk of a battle in the Alps, where one of our warriors had a Garde cornered, only to have his killing blow somehow turned against him. The General hasn’t tolerated talk of this so-called Loric charm, but my people are still careful.

The old woman puts up more resistance than expected, yet she’s quickly overwhelmed. The Garde is tougher still—she has powers, the ground quaking beneath the feet of our warriors. I wonder what it would be like to have that kind of power. But if the trade-off is to be part of a dying race forced to cower in crappy huts on the banks of a river, I’ll pass.

The strategy to capture them changes once our warriors realize they can hurt the Garde. Either the rumors of the Loric charm are as false as my father believes, or this is Number One. The General might have wanted her taken alive; but when the warriors understand that they can kill her, bringing us closer to our goal, bloodlust overcomes orders.

It ends when one of the warriors puts his sword through Number One’s back, impaling her.

“That was awesome!” shouts Ivan. Even my father allows himself a thin smile of approval.

I know I should share in their elation, but my hands won’t stop shaking. I feel grateful that I only had to watch from a distance, that I wasn’t one of the Mogadorians now reduced to ash on a Malaysian riverbank. I’m also grateful not to be Loric, not to have to spend my life running in fear from impossible odds, only to be stabbed in the back.

It occurs to me that I’m feeling something close to empathy for the Garde. The Great Book warns against that, so I shut it away. I need to get beyond these childish feelings. The battle was less glorious than I expected, but still a great victory for Mogadorian progress. Only eight more loose ends remain and then Ra’s vision will be fulfilled; nothing will stand in the way of our expansion to Earth. Nine dead Garde are a small price to pay for my sweet penthouse at the top of the Washington Monument.

They shove Number One into a body bag and dump her in the plane with the rest of the cargo. The Loric Chest she had with her is taken as well, although even the strongest of our warriors can’t pry open the lock. One’s pendant is ripped off her body by my father, though I’m not sure what use he has for Loric jewelry.

Her Cêpan’s body is left behind. She is of no importance to us now.

On the plane ride back, the benches are a lot less crowded. I stay quiet, but Ivan pesters the warriors from the front line for gory details until the General hisses at him to shut up. If they had been a football team, I’m sure the surviving warriors would be dousing each other with Gatorade the way that human athletes do after a win. But we’re not a football team. We’re Mogadorians. And my father doesn’t even know what Gatorade is. We travel the rest of the way in silence.

During the flight, the General comes to sit beside me.

“When we get back to Ashwood Estates,” he says, “I have an important task for you.”

I nod. “Yes. Of course, sir.”

My father looks down at my hands, still shaking no matter how hard I try to steady them.

“Stop that,” he growls before heading back to the cockpit.

CHAPTER 4

Although I saw her in the battle, the girl on the metal slab isn’t what I was expecting.

Ever since the First Great Expansion, we’ve been taught that the Garde are the last true threat to our way of life. We’ve been taught that they are fierce warriors, lying in wait to one day take up arms against the engine of Mogadorian progress. Somehow I thought this threat to my people would look more fearsome.

In death, Number One doesn’t look like much at all. She looks to be around my age or just a bit older, and her skin, once tan, is now bloodlessly pale. Her lips are blue. Streaks of dried blood run through her blond hair. Her body is covered with a white sheet, but under the bright lights of the laboratory I can see the grisly shadow of the wound that blossoms across her midsection.

We are beneath Ashwood Estates, in the underground laboratory of Dr. Lockam Anu. I’ve never been allowed down here before, so I try to take in as many of the strange, blinking machines as possible without openly gawking. The General would not be kind if he thought I was distracted.

I stand next to my father, both of us silent, watching as Anu gently eases One’s head into a strange mechanical helmet. Anu is an old man, his spine hunched, his tattooed scalp disgustingly wrinkled. He circles around One, connecting loose wires to the open diodes that clutter the helmet.

“Should be ready,” mutters Anu, stepping back.

“Finally,” grunts my father.

Anu pauses over One’s left ankle, tracing the Loric charm scarred there. What the Loric charm looks like is one of the first things we were taught when we came to Earth. Scrutinizing every bare ankle for its presence became second nature for me long ago.

“Four years of searching for a child with this symbol,” muses Anu. “You certainly take your time, General.”

I can practically feel my father clench his fists. It’s like standing next to a gathering storm. Yet he makes no reply. Dr. Anu heads up the research and science team at Ashwood Estates and is entitled to certain benefits, like making a dig at the General without being immediately beaten.

Anu looks in my direction, his left eye involuntarily drooping and half lidded.

“Did your esteemed father explain why you are here, boy?”

I glance at the General. He nods, granting me permission to speak.

“No, sir.”

“Ah. ‘Sir.’ What a polite young man you’ve raised, General.” Anu gestures to a nearby metal chair, over which hangs an imposing piece of complicated technology. “Come, have a seat.”

I glance again at my father, but his face gives nothing away.

“You will do our family proud today, Adamus,” rumbles the General. I’m relieved that my hands have finally stopped shaking.

I sit down. Anu crouches before me, his old bones creaking in protest. He binds my wrists and ankles to the chair with rubber straps. I know that I should trust my father. I’m too important for him to let anything bad happen to me. Still, I can’t help but squirm a bit as I’m buckled in.

“Comfortable?” asks Dr. Anu, smirking at me.

“What is this?” I reply, forgetting the General’s rule against asking questions.

My father gazes at me with surprising patience. Maybe he’s as uncomfortable seeing his only son being strapped down as I am being strapped.

“Dr. Anu believes this machine will let us access the Loric girl’s memories,” explains my father.

“I
know
that it will,” corrects Anu. He rubs a warm liquid on my temples before connecting a pair of rubber electrodes. The electrode wires run to a monitor positioned next to Number One, which suddenly hums to life.