Lorien Legacies: The Lost Files (124 page)

ONCE MY DESKTOP SUPERCOMPUTER—OR AT LEAST
what passes for one on this planet—is set up in the office, I get straight to work.

I start with the information I have from Zophie and Janus. It’s not much, but that’s what I’m here to fix.

Since tracking the Garde has proved to be nearly impossible, I take a different approach. A lifetime ago when we were still drifting through space
in a refurbished ship, Zophie mentioned that Pittacus Lore had set up a contact for the chosen Garde here on Earth. If I can find that person, I may be able to get a better sense of what’s going on. He or she might even know where Janus’s ship is.

And there’s always the possibility that maybe Pittacus survived the fall of Lorien. Who knows where the Elders were when our planet was destroyed?
Maybe he’s even here, on Earth. His contact might know.

So I focus my investigation on a simple question: How would Pittacus Lore go about recruiting a human to help the Loric?

I spend countless hours thinking about this, trying to get inside the head of an Elder. Would he have sought out a great thinker? Or a military leader? Or perhaps he would have chosen someone with extreme wealth who would
have the resources to protect the last of our kind. These inquiries only lead to more questions, though: What Earth languages did Pittacus speak? How
many
contacts might he have had on this planet? In my time at the Lorien Defense Academy, I worked on improving technologies for Earth but never thought to ask how those technologies were given to the beings here. For the first time in my life, I
regret not sticking it out at the LDA after my brother’s death. If I had, maybe I’d have more information to work with now.

I barely sleep and rarely leave the back office. With blackout curtains on the windows, I hardly even notice whether it’s light or dark outside. Eventually I realize I may be looking at this the wrong way. Maybe Pittacus didn’t find a contact on Earth. Maybe someone on Earth
found him.

This is something I can use, something narrower. I start looking into Earth initiatives to contact other planets. There are relatively few, and I’m struck, not for the first time, by how strange it must be to think
your small world of dirt and grass and water might be unique in its ability to support life. Over the course of a few days I follow leads that go nowhere. I break into email
accounts and track the browsing histories of a dozen astrophysicists, cosmologists, astronauts—even a few crackpot conspiracy theorists. I uncover nothing that even alludes to Lorien or Pittacus Lore.

Finally, I stumble across a promising candidate. I find information about a man named Malcolm Goode, who was outspoken in his belief of extraterrestrial beings—so much so that it apparently cost
him his job at a place of education that sounds not unlike the LDA. More important, he published several articles detailing his attempts to broadcast messages to other planets.

His research and methods, while primitive, are sound.

Once I have a name and a little bit of history, it’s not long before I find Malcolm Goode himself. He appears to be living in a small town in a state named Ohio. I
do more digging and find a few email addresses linked to his name. From there it’s hardly any work to hack into his accounts, where I sift through the everyday correspondences of what seems to be a very uneventful life.

Except for one email I discover that leads me to a private online forum. It has been inactive for years, and the correspondences all seem innocuous. Still, I dig around, until
I find a deleted post still lurking in the
lines of code that make up the message board:

Hello? Malcolm? Is anyone still on here? Has there been any more contact from the Pittacus? -Ethan

I consider trying to contact Malcolm online or over the phone, but I figure that if he
is
the person Pittacus talked to, he’s probably been sworn to secrecy. I don’t want to risk having him disappear on me,
so instead I load some gear and weapons back into my SUV and drive from Alabama to Ohio for most of the next day. I hate leaving Yellowhammer unfortified, but tracking down this lead takes priority. Besides, I can’t imagine I’ve done anything there to set off alarms for the Mogadorians.

Not yet, at least.

Malcolm lives on the outskirts of a town called Paradise. When I arrive, I park down the
street and watch his house for a while, trying to get an idea of who this man is. Through my binoculars I see him pass by the windows, along with a woman and young boy, about six or seven years old, if I had to guess. His wife and son, I assume—I remember mention of them in some of his emails. I watch him water some flowers in the front yard, then wash and dry dishes in the kitchen. His existence
seems perfectly ordinary—so normal that I’m concerned I’ve got the wrong guy entirely.

When his wife leaves and the boy runs out into the backyard to play, I make my move. I pull in behind a truck in Malcolm’s driveway and park. A few seconds later I’m standing on his porch, knocking on the door. I keep one of Raylan’s blasters tucked into the pocket of my long, black coat. I’ve taken to carrying
it with me wherever I go, just in case.

Malcolm Goode answers the door with a smile. His hair is a little unkempt, dark and wavy. His eyes are bright, brows raised in anticipation.

“Can I help you?” he asks, pushing thick glasses up his nose. He’s on the scrawny side, and I’m much taller than he is. Good—if this goes badly and he ends up less than pleased that I showed up on his doorstep, I’ll
have that advantage on him.

I get straight to the point.

“I’m here about Pittacus Lore.”

He pauses before responding.

“I think you have the wrong house.”

“We both know that’s not true,” I say, but not in English. I use the language of Lorien. It feels so strange on my tongue at first—I haven’t spoken the words of my people in months. Malcolm twitches as I speak. His eyes go wide for an instant,
and then he blinks a lot, staring at me in a mixture of confusion and astonishment. This is exactly the type of reaction I’m looking for.

“What language is that?” Malcolm asks quietly, unconvincingly. “I’ve never heard it before.”

I switch back to English.

“I know who you are, Malcolm Goode.”

He starts to shut the door, but my foot is in the way before he can get it closed.

“Listen,” I say
firmly. “I have no intention of hurting you. I’m only looking for information.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, trying to kick my foot out of the way.

I put my hand on the door, flexing my fingers and pushing back a little. Malcolm must feel the resistance, because his nostrils flare.

“I just want answers,” I say.

“I don’t know anything.” His voice is higher now, verging
on panic. “If you don’t leave now I’ll call the police.”

“And tell them what?” I ask. “That I came asking about a Loric Elder? You don’t want something like that getting into the papers. It’d lead the Mogs right to you.”

Malcolm’s face goes white. He stops pushing so hard against the door.

“They’re here,” I continue. “The Mogadorians. He told you about them, right? Pittacus must have known
what was going to happen to Lorien if he set up things with you in advance. The Mogs are on this planet. They’ve come to Earth. I just want answers.”

Malcolm looks up at me. He searches my face. I can see him doing calculations in his head, trying to figure out what to do next.

“How do I know you’re not a—a Mogadorian?” he asks.

“Malcolm, if you’d ever seen one of those bastards, you’d realize
that’s the most insulting question I’ve ever been asked.”

He nods a little. “From what I’ve heard . . . I can imagine.”

“I know about the ones who came from Lorien. The nine Garde and their Mentors. I’m a friend. If I wasn’t, I’d have shown up with an army.”

After a few moments he takes the rest of his weight off the door, opening it just wide enough for me to pass through. While he pokes his
head out the front doorway and looks around, I investigate the first few rooms in his house, taking in my surroundings, preparing for anything. Just because this man was chosen by one of the Loric Elders doesn’t mean he’s to be trusted. Not by me, at least—not when I barely have any faith in the Elders themselves. I keep one hand in my coat pocket, ready to draw my weapon at the first sign that
Malcolm isn’t going to cooperate.

But he does. He ushers me into his office. Dark wooden shelves line the walls. They’re filled with books, files and papers all piled on top of each other
haphazardly. The stacks spill out onto virtually every surface of the room, and for a moment I’m reminded of my small basement apartment on Lorien, packed with all sorts of computer equipment and various electronic
projects.

Malcolm peeks through the window and looks into the backyard, where his son runs around with some big spaceship or airplane held over his head. When he seems satisfied that the boy is safe, he closes the blinds and turns to me.

“How did you—,” he starts.

“An old message board,” I say.

“But . . . we abandoned that well before the ship landed. And we only ever spoke in code. Anything
conspicuous was deleted.”

“Nothing is ever really deleted from the internet, Malcolm. One day your people will figure that out. If it’s any consolation, it took me quite some time to find it.”

He shakes his head. “But we were so careful. There were never any actual details mentioned. That was all reserved for face-to-face meetings.”

“Someone didn’t follow the rules,” I say.

He considers this
for a moment, and then his face twists into a scowl.

“I thought I’d gotten rid of . . .” He sighs. “Nothing is ever really deleted.” He purses his lips a little. “Ethan.
I always figured he’d end up being trouble. That’s why we cut him out before the ship ever landed.”

“How did Pittacus recruit you?” I ask. “Through your messages sent into space?”

He looks at me quizzically before nodding.

“I’ve done my research on you,” I explain. “Are you still in contact? Could you get a message out to him?”

Malcolm’s eyebrows furrow together, and his gaze falls to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But Pittacus is dead.”

These words land in my ears, but I feel them in my core, my stomach twisting so hard that I almost double over. This had always been a possible, if not likely, scenario. Still,
hearing this for sure takes a little bit of air from my lungs. I always wanted the Elders out of power, but never dead. Not really. We are fewer and fewer.

“You’re sure?” I ask.

“Quite positive,” he says. He glances to the window overlooking the backyard and then back to me.

“What about a man named Loridas?” I ask.

“Another of the ‘Elders,’ yes? From what Pittacus told me . . . I think they’re
all gone as well.”

I nod slowly.

“Was there anyone else on the ship other than the nine children and their guardians?”

“No. Well, there was a pilot too, but he took the ship to hide it. I’m not—”

“Janus,” I say. “His name was Janus. He’s dead too.”

I turn away from him, taking a few steps toward a wall of bookshelves as I let all this information sink in.

“Who are you?” he asks. “You speak
their language. Are you from Lorien as well?”

I’m about to answer when I see it—tucked under a few pages of loose paper on a bookshelf. A white tablet.

I recognize it; it’s Loric. A tracking device used to keep tabs on ships, inventory and sometimes even people, depending on how it’s programmed.

If it’s here . . .

In a few quick strides I’m across the room and the tablet is in my hands, the
papers on top of it tumbling to the floor.

“He gave you this?” I ask.

“Pittacus did, yes,” Malcolm says. “Though I’m afraid he didn’t give me any instructions other than to keep it safe. He was wounded and . . . do you know what it is?”

I pull my laptop out of my bag and find a connector cable from one of the old Loric data pads. It slides into a port at the bottom of the white tablet, connecting
it to my computer. Within seconds I’ve got a map of Earth pulled up on the device.

“How did you . . .” He trails off.

“I’m good with computers,” I murmur. “And I used these once or twice back on Lorien.”

There are blue blips pulsing across the planet. Blue blips that represent people. Ten in all. Could this be the nine Garde plus one more? Maybe Ella? Given her parents’ powers, I wouldn’t be
surprised if she developed gifts early on.

Or is there another that I’m not accounting for?

And there are two triangles too. One triangle is in Egypt—my crashed rocket. The second lies in the southwestern United States.

The other ship.

My pulse quickens until I can feel it throbbing at my temples.

“Do you know this area?” I ask.

Malcolm leans over my shoulder. “Let’s see. That looks like
it would be . . . Oh.” He snorts a little. “Yes. I believe that’s where the Dulce Base is supposed to be located. A secret government operation. Most people are more familiar with Area 51, but
this
is no tourist trap like Roswell.”

“Dulce,” I say to myself. That makes sense. If the American government stumbled across Janus’s ship, they’d likely want to keep it hidden. At least that means it’s
not in Mog hands.

“What’s in Dulce?” Malcolm asks.

“This is perfect,” I say, ignoring him. “I’ll get the ship back. With this tablet I could easily collect the Garde too.”

“You can’t,” Malcolm says, shaking his head rapidly. “They have to stay separated.”

“They won’t stand a chance against the Mogs if they’re found alone,” I say.

Something flashes on Malcolm’s face. He shakes his head a little.

“You don’t know about the protection that’s been placed on them, do you?” he asks.

I narrow my eyes. “I think we need to have a very long talk, Malcolm Goode.”

I KNEW THE ELDERS MUST HAVE BEEN UP TO
something when they’d sent Garde to this planet. I’d even assumed that they’d in some way endanger the young Loric in the name of the greater good—the sort of thing I expected from Lorien’s rulers. Never did I imagine that they would give these nine children the order in which they would die and call it “protection.” In terms of survival,
maybe it makes sense. But all I can do is think of the poor, unlucky kid who was picked to be Number One. What kind of burden is that to carry around with you?

These nine Garde—somehow they’re to be the saviors of our people. That helps explain why the Mogadorians have come to Earth: if the escaped Garde will one day bring Lorien back to power, it’s not a stretch to assume that they might do
so by somehow toppling those who destroyed our planet to begin with. Of course the Mogs
want to eradicate them.

It’s obvious now why they separated. The reason they’ve scattered so far, these tiny blips on my screen located across this planet. I’d been wary of reuniting them, but now I see for certain that this would be dangerous for everyone. The Mogs could take them out in a single attack that
way, destroying all the children at once. Better that they stay separate. At least for now. At least until they’re older and stronger, with Legacies to fight with. I hope their Cêpans are skilled—that they’ve been given the strongest, most capable Mentors from our planet.

I have to let them be. As much as I hate to do it, I have to rely on the wisdom of the Elders and the capabilities of the
Cêpans. Even seeking the Garde out individually would mean I was running the risk of leading the Mogs right to them, no matter how careful I was. That leaves me with one clear goal.

I’m going to Dulce to get that ship.

“I’m taking this with me,” I say, staring down at the white tablet.

“What?” Malcolm asks. “No. Why? You can’t.”

“You don’t have a choice,” I say. The tablet is Loric. It belongs
with me.

“Pittacus told me to protect it. He said it would prove to be useful.”

“Exactly. I’m going to use it.”

“No.” Malcolm curls his fingers into fists and plants his feet in front of me. “It’s my responsibility. I’ve put everything on the line to help your people. My life. My
family
. Pittacus told me to keep this tablet safe for the Garde, and that’s what I’m going to do. One of the Cêpan—I
believe his Loric name is Brandon—said he’d be back for it if there was trouble, or when his charge was at the age when he would start developing powers or whatever you know them as.”

My hand moves towards my weapon. I don’t want to threaten Malcolm with violence—he’s right when he says he’s sacrificed much to help my people, after all—but I’m not leaving this piece of technology in the hands
of someone who doesn’t even know how to use it properly.

There’s a clattering from the hallway. I turn and see Malcolm’s kid standing there. A plastic robot is on the floor in front of him. He’s wearing a shirt with an image of Saturn on it, the sixth planet from this solar system’s sun. I recognize its rings; I’ve seen them up close, on my journey to this world. The boy is pale and thin and
has sandy-blond hair, and even though physically he looks nothing like Zane, there’s something in his expression—full of wonder—that immediately makes me think of my brother. It hurts a place inside me I thought had finally begun to heal.

“Sam,” Malcolm says, letting his posture slacken.
“Go outside, would you?”

Sam just stares up at me. Malcolm looks back and forth between us a few times before
crossing the room and pushing Sam out of my sight.

I think about the fact that this family in a small town in Ohio has perhaps saved the last of my people. And about how I was considering taking out my blaster and forcing Malcolm to let me have the tablet. What would Zophie say? What would Zane say?

I’m not some Mogadorian thug. I’m not going to threaten this man and his son. That’s not who
I am.

Besides, if the Cêpans are counting on the white tablet being in Paradise, I can’t very well take it back to Alabama.

“Your son can stay,” I say, setting the tracking device down on Malcolm’s desk and packing up my gear. “I should be on my way.”

Malcolm looks confused but nods.

“Tell whoever comes for the tablet that the ship in Egypt is wrecked,” I say, moving past Malcolm and his son
towards the front door.

“Wait,” he says. “Who are you? How did you get here? You haven’t even told me your name. Where are you going?”

“New Mexico.” I stop on the porch, turning to him. “Malcolm. Take my visit as a warning. I found you. It took me a while, but I did. And that means the Mog—”
I glance at Sam, hiding behind his father’s legs. “That
others
might be able to as well. Others who aren’t
as friendly as I am.”

Malcolm stares hard at me, nodding a little bit.

“Keep your family safe,” I say, stepping down onto the Goodes’ yard. “And the tablet too. At least
hide
the damned thing. The last thing we need is for that to fall into the enemy’s hands.”

Malcolm is still on the porch when I back out of his driveway. Sam lingers in the doorframe. As I start down the road, he waves to me.

The drive from Paradise to Dulce is a long one. Lush green fields eventually give way to flat plains that seem to stretch on past the horizon. I rest at a motel in Kansas for a few hours, hardly sleeping because, for the first time since I arrived on Earth, I know
exactly
where Janus’s ship is. And because I’m worried about how I’m going to get to it. I run through what history I can find of this
“secret base” online. Most of it seems to come from conspiracy theorists and quacks—though, considering that Malcolm was viewed as one of those by the rest of his profession, perhaps I shouldn’t be so quick to pass judgment. It seems that most believe this base is some sort of research facility, which I hope means it won’t be guarded too heavily. Maybe I’ll even be able to tap into its communications
once I’m close by
so I can get a feel for what the security is like inside—something I dare not try to do on the motel’s unsecure network.

Perhaps. Maybe.
The uncertainties are many, and I have to remind myself that this is something I cannot rush. I can’t just cut through a fence or hop over a gate and storm the base, rushing headfirst into this situation. Only a fool would be so brazen—or naive—to
do so.

I get a sense of the area where the base is supposed to be via online maps and photographs, and then try to sleep. The next morning I rise before the sun and drive through the mountains of Colorado, which eventually give way to the arid terrain of New Mexico.

Once I spot a chain-link fence topped in razor wire and covered in signs warning against photography and trespassing, I figure
I’m in the right place. The base’s perimeter is barely visible from the trail-like road I’m on. It’s the middle of the afternoon, and I’m not exactly inconspicuous driving around the desert area in my big, black SUV, so I don’t test my luck by getting any closer to the fence. Instead, I head to the nearby town of Dulce and pay for a week at a cheap motel. I stash most of my things in a shoddy little
room in case I manage to get the ship and have to leave my car behind. I keep a few weapons with me, then round up some additional supplies from a sporting-goods store. Night-vision
goggles. Some wire cutters, just in case.

At night I return. I park a half mile from the fence and scope out the site with my new goggles. I don’t notice any cameras or alarms. It’s not until I get closer that I can
finally see the tops of buildings and some of the grounds of the base. I stand a few feet from the fence and observe.

And I see things I can’t even begin to comprehend.

The base is owned by United States government agencies—that’s obvious from the information I found online and the signs dotting the fence line warning that I’ve approached a “military encampment.” I can also see plenty of vehicles
with government plates and markings. There are a handful of armed personnel around, wearing camouflage, pacing back and forth.

But that’s not what causes my mouth to drop open and my hands to shake.

There’s a ship sitting beside a tall watchtower. Not a Loric ship, but one I recognize all the same. Hundreds just like it swarmed the skies during the invasion of Lorien, raining fire and death
down upon my planet, dropping off battalions of soldiers who slaughtered my people.

It’s Mogadorian.

“Holy shit,” I whisper. “What are the Mogs doing here?”

My mind reels with the implications. Either the
Mogs have taken over this base and are somehow forcing humans to work for them or . . .

I swallow down a mixture of anger and disbelief.

Or the Mogs and the American government are somehow
working together.

This just got much more complicated.

I slowly lower the night-vision goggles, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. It’s only then that I hear the footsteps behind me.