Lorien Legacies: The Lost Files (118 page)

MY FINGERS HOVER OVER THE KEYBOARD, UNSURE
of how to proceed. I have to be careful—if the Mogs found Eric Bird, it’s entirely possible they’re watching this forum as well.

I try to be smart when I reply, still using our language:

        
Who are you?

While I wait for a response, I try to track the user’s data, but it appears to be completely blocked. Or if it’s not, it’s encrypted and hidden well beyond my skills. I hope that means one of the Loric from Janus’s ship happened to be a tech prodigy.

A response comes:

        
Anonymous: A friend.

        
You’re from Lorien?

        
Anonymous: Yes.

        
Where?

        
Anonymous: The capital.

        
When did you come to Earth?

        
Anonymous: You ask many questions.

        
I have to be careful.

        
Anonymous: So do I.

My heart pumps in my chest, threatening to break out. I rack my brain, trying to come up with a way to prove this person is not a threat. The responses are coming quickly now, and I want to keep our interaction going.

I need to know—I
have
to know—if I’m talking to someone from the other ship.

I focus.

        
I miss our home. I miss the red Spires of Elkin.

        
Anonymous: So do I.

The Spires of Elkin were green. Before the Mogs destroyed them.

My cheeks get hot as my pulse pounds. This is not one of the Cêpan or Garde—certainly not Janus. It’s no one who has any real working knowledge of Loric culture.

But someone who knows our language.

I press on, clinging to remote possibilities that this person is a friend. Maybe this is a Loric ambassador, someone we’d planted on this planet long ago. I have to know more.

        
I’m here on one of the Lore envoys. Are you?

        
Anonymous: Yes, a Lore envoy.

There’s no such thing.

        
Have you heard from our home lately? I haven’t got a message in almost two years.

        
Anonymous: I have new orders, but I cannot share them here. Where are you?

This is a trap.

My mind goes back to the destruction of Eilon Park when the fire rained down. I remember the woman who the Mogs murdered in front of me and all the terrible sights and sounds and smells from that night that I’ve been trying
not
to think about.

I tap out each word with quiet, seething rage.

        
Die, Mogadorian trash.

This time I don’t get an immediate response. I just sit staring at the screen for what feels like a very long time, waiting for my breathing to settle down. I assume that our little exchange is over when a new message comes in.

        
Anonymous: Let’s try this another way.

Before I can formulate a coherent question, a new private message from Anonymous pops up. There’s a file attached—an MPEG movie.

My hands start shaking with uncertainty, but somehow I manage to calm them. I download the video to a secure folder—one that’s cordoned off from the rest of my hard drive—and run every test I can imagine on it. But it seems clean. No viruses. No backdoor lines of code. A simple video.

I glance over my shoulder. Zophie is still in the living room. I think about calling her in, but being so unsure of what I’m about to see, I think better of it. Instead, I quietly close the door and sit back down, putting on my headphones.

Then I play the video.

The image that appears at first fills me with relief. I can’t help it—seeing Janus after looking for him for so long immediately sparks joy in me. That fades almost instantly as I remember who sent the movie and realize how terrible he looks. There are bruises all around his green eyes. His red hair—the same shade as his sister’s—is shaved off in places, seemingly at random. He’s shirtless, gaunt, and tied down to a chair. There are blue bands around his arms and neck with cords leading out of them to something off camera.

I gape in horror, covering my mouth with one hand, trying not to cry out.

There’s a gravelly voice from offscreen.

“Speak to your kind,” it says in accented Loric.

Janus shudders. Then he starts talking.

“I . . . I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is thin and shaking. “I tried to hide our ship. I was in the mountains for a while. I thought I’d been careful. . . .” He stares into the camera. Tears fill his eyes. “They destroyed our planet and when they found me . . . The things they’ve done to me . . . Forgive me, but I couldn’t hold
out. I told them everything. Everything I know about the Garde children. I’m so sorry. . . .” Suddenly there’s a fierce look in his eyes. His nostrils flare as he turns to someone off camera and shouts. “By now they’ve scattered to every corner of this world. You’ll never find them! And soon they’ll wield the powers of our Elders and destroy every—”

Some kind of shock surges through him. After a while he stops screaming. Soon after, he stops breathing. The video ends.

I clench my fists. Before I know it I’m on my feet, my chair knocked over, and I’m storming through the office, throwing every framed photo and vase the landlord decorated my rented room with.

There’s a knock at my door.

“Lexa?” Zophie asks.

I close the file. I want to delete it from my hard drive and my memory, but all I have time to do is pull up a Montreal news site Zophie sent me before she comes in.

“Is everything okay?” she asks.

“Yes,” I lie. “I was just . . .”

But I don’t have any words. I look at her. Everything she’s done since the first missiles hit has been in order to reunite with her brother. But he’s gone. The Mogs have killed him, as they killed our planet and our people. I look at Zophie, and I wonder how she will ever handle this news. I can never show her the video, I
know that. But how do I even find the words to explain things to her? How do I deal with the fallout of the knowledge I can barely deal with myself?

Because Janus being captured means we have failed.
I
have failed. We couldn’t save him, which means we might lose the other Garde as well. Just like Zane slipped away.

“What is it?” Zophie asks. “Lexa, you’re scaring me a little.”

There had been only a small window of hope after they’d told me about Zane—when I was flying through the sky of Lorien, looking for him, for evidence that the officials had made some kind of mistake. But then they’d found him in the wreckage. He was dead. I couldn’t pretend he might come back. He was here one instant and then gone.

Zophie still has faith, though. And knowing that, I make a decision that I hope I can live with.

I let her continue to dream.

“Nothing,” I say. “It’s nothing. I was just feeling a little claustrophobic and helpless.”

She smiles sadly, and it’s like a dagger in my chest. I can’t look at her.

“But I wanted to tell you that I think we should look into the Montreal case you sent me. It’s only a few hours’ drive from here. I may go up there tomorrow.”

She seems excited by this—the first time I’ve seen
her light up since we talked to Eric.

“The fresh air might do us some good,” she says, and I try not to cringe at the word “us” because I know I can’t sit beside her in a car all day tomorrow knowing what I know.

“You look stressed,” she continues. “I’ll make us some tea.”

She leaves. I realize my fists are still balled up, my fingers aching. I stretch them as I turn back to my computer, clicking once more on the forum.

There’s another message from Anonymous. From a Mog.

        
Anonymous: He is not the only one we have. There are many more. Loric and Human. Comply with us, and you can save them. Turn yourself in, and they won’t suffer the same fate as this one.

I clench my teeth. The Mog could be lying. From the way Janus spoke, it sounded as though they hadn’t captured any of the passengers from his ship.

Even if this bastard is telling the truth, there’s no way the Mogadorians are ever releasing their captives. Not after what they did to Janus. Not after they slaughtered our people and razed our cities.

Every ounce of anger I ever had towards the Loric Elders or anything else from Lorien seems
inconsequential compared to the rage brewing inside of me towards the Mogadorians now. And I finally realize that they are also to blame for Zane’s death. The Elders made the Garde train as solders, yes. But only because they knew a threat was on the horizon. That the prophecy was true.

If it wasn’t for the damned Mogs, we could have lived our lives in peace. There wouldn’t have been cause for such severe training.

Zane might have lived to see his fourteenth birthday.

I tap out one more message before deleting my profile and post, my fingers hammers on the keyboard:

        
I will destroy you.

I AVOID ZOPHIE FOR THE REST OF THE NIGHT,
trying once again to find out where the video came from. But the Mogs’ tracks have been covered too well. There’s nothing for me to latch on to. I’m good, but our enemy is apparently better. And so I do the only thing I can do: I watch the video of Janus over and over again, frame by frame, trying to find any hint of where the Mogs were filming. But it’s just some brick room. It could be anywhere.

I hardly sleep. When I do, it’s restless. I rise with the sun and map out my route to Montreal.

I have to get out of this cabin. I need time to think about how I’m going to break this news to Zophie. How do you form the words that you know will destroy someone? I have no idea. What I do know is that I can’t spend the day with her—can’t spend any time with her—because knowing what I know and seeing
the glimmer of hope still alive within her is torture. I think about sending her to Montreal instead of me, but this is a good, hard lead. There very well could be Mogs still running around, and while I’m no soldier, I’m probably more of a fighter than she is. I can’t send her into harm’s way.

So I decide to go alone.

I try to sneak out, already formulating an excuse to give her later—“I wanted to let you sleep and surprise you if there was any news!”—but she walks out of her bedroom just as I’m heading for the door.

“Lex, what are you . . . ,” she starts. Her eyes are heavy with sleep.

“I just wanted to get an early start on the trip,” I say.

“I thought we’d go together. If there’s anything that could lead us to Janus or the other—”

“No.” I cut her off a bit too harshly. She seems taken aback. I sigh and try to think of a valid excuse. “I mean . . . I just need to do this on my own. I’m so glad we’re in this together, but . . . I’m much more used to being by myself. That’s how I lived on Lorien. I just need a little space.”

I’m painfully aware of what terrible reasoning this is, given that I’ve spent the better part of the last two years in a tiny ship with two other people and a baby. So I keep talking.

“It’ll only be a few hours. I’ll be back by dark, unless
I uncover something.”

She’s quiet for a few seconds.

“I’ll make dinner then,” she eventually says. She hands me one of the prepaid phones I’ve bought for us. “Call me as soon as you get there. And if you find anything. Just stay in touch, okay? I’ll be here looking for more leads.”

“Great,” I say.

I start to leave, but she steps forward and hugs me.

“Thanks for checking this one out,” she says quietly. “We’re going to find him.”

I hope she doesn’t notice that I tense in her arms, or that I can’t look her in the eyes when she lets me go.

“Be careful,” she says.

“I’ll see you in a bit,” I call over my shoulder.

In the car, I toss a bag that contains my souped-up laptop and a few of Raylan’s weapons onto the passenger seat. Zophie waves to me from the porch, and then I’m on the road.

The drive is scenic. Peaceful, even. The leaves are turning brilliant shades of orange and red. I would enjoy it if I could just get Janus and Zophie out of my mind. Every time I think of her waiting at home, still believing that her brother is out there, I feel sick to my stomach. I start to wonder if I’ve made a bad decision—that knowing that something terrible has happened to Janus is better than not knowing where he is or if
he’s even alive. Eventually she’ll have to find out, or it might drive her mad.

When I get back, I’ll tell her. Maybe not the exact truth, but I will tell her that Janus is gone. I just have to figure out how.

An hour or so after I cross the Canadian border, I pick up my phone to check in with Zophie, but it has no signal. It’s only then that I realize the burner is only set to work off US cell towers. I glance at my map—I’m only half an hour from Montreal. I decide to soldier on.

At a gas station outside of the city, I buy a calling card and sidle up to a pay phone. I call the cabin’s landline, but in response I get a fast, repetitive beeping—the kind of noise I’ve only heard once before while chasing a potential lead on Janus, when I called a number that was disconnected. I try again and get the same sound.

When Zophie doesn’t pick up the other burner, I start to panic. I try two more times but get no answer. I tell myself she’s just gone to the store, or she’s accidentally left the phone off the hook—any number of excuses that could result in her not answering.

I call my burner’s number so I can check my voice mail remotely. There’s one message. Of course it’s from her, left an hour ago.

“Lexa!” she shouts. “Lexa, you have to come back now! As soon as you get this.” She’s so
excited.
“I stumbled onto this Listserv of people calling themselves
‘Greeters’ who say they were recruited by an Elder. I posted on it anonymously, and someone’s already contacted me. I know you said to be careful about this stuff, but I just couldn’t wait. And besides, I made him prove he was one of us. He knows about Loridas and the Garde. He was on the other ship. He’s one of the Cêpan.”

My heart jumps into my throat.

“I asked the person what the pilot’s name was. He said Janus. He knew all about my brother.”

There’s a pause in the message. I can hear Zophie sniffling, fighting back tears.

“Lexa,” she says. “He says Janus is with them. My brother is on his way here. Everything’s going to be okay.”

My heart collapses, and before I realize it, I’m back in the car with my laptop open in front of me, connected to a satellite uplink. It’s not too late. I can still contact her. If she’s on her computer, I can send her a message. . . .

I pull up the live surveillance feed of the cabin on my laptop and choke. There are dozens of Mogs on our lawn. They wrestle with the Chimærae, who claw at the intruders. But the animals are being overpowered—there are hideous, gnashing beasts alongside the Mogadorians, and they tear into the Chimærae with terrifying ferocity. A few of our animals are already
being bagged and loaded into a truck. Some fall and don’t get back up.

And in the middle of it all is Zophie. I scream at her, dozens of things that she can’t hear. I tell her to run. I tell her to fight. I apologize. She struggles valiantly alongside the Chimærae, tearing out of the grip of one Mogadorian, only to be grabbed by another. She has some kind of tool in her hand that she swings at him. A hammer or wrench—it’s hard to tell. She must have been caught off guard, without a real weapon. I watch in horror as she finally escapes, running up the porch and towards the front door. Blasters fire, missing her, creating smoking holes in the wooden cabin wall.

She’s intercepted by one of the Mog beasts the size of our station wagon—all horns and teeth, running at her on four legs. It catches her in its jaws, but she’s not done fighting. She swings the tool in her hand down straight into the monster’s eye. It howls in pain, dropping her, and I see that I completely underestimated her fighting abilities.

But it’s not over.

The Mog beast lets out a roar and swings its head at Zophie. The creature’s horned snout impales her. She stumbles towards the front door, a dark spot appearing and then growing on her stomach where the creature struck her. And then she falls. A few of the Chimærae surround her, turning into fanged monsters in order to
protect her. But they can’t help now.

Seconds pass. Her chest stops rising.

She joins her brother.

The Chimærae must know this, because they leave her side, trying to save themselves. It’s no use, though. They’re overpowered. Captured. The Mogs seem furious with their horned creature—the one that just murdered my friend—and begin to beat it. Flames start to lick the sides of the cabin, the multitude of blaster shots having caught something on fire.

Soon afterwards, the video feed cuts out.

I begin to shake. Slightly at first, and then violently. For the first time in as long as I can remember, tears start to stream down my face in hot, wet rivers. I can’t stop them. My nose begins to run, and when I open my mouth to breathe, a sound comes out that isn’t Loric—it’s animal.

I start the car, ready to speed down the highway, to fly back to our cabin.

But it would be pointless. Zophie is gone. The Chimærae will be gone too by the time I get there. The cabin is burning and is probably still being watched by the Mogs.

I can’t fight those Mogadorian bastards and win. Not hand-to-hand or face-to-face. Not that many of them.

The noise comes from my mouth again, raw and full of rage.

And then I’m driving, as fast as I can. Night falls and I continue, aimlessly, without any destination, until the car runs out of gas on the side of the road. Then I get out and run. No one is here to find me this time. No LDA squad tracking the ship I’d stolen and taking me back home. It’s just me. I run until I’m so exhausted that I feel like I can’t take another step.

And then I keep going.