‘Eight,’ Sam says, swallowing. ‘Shit.’
I turn to Adam, not ready to grieve yet.
‘Does this ship you’ve hacked have any guns?’
1 4
After a barrage of near-deafening blaster fire in the wide-open space of the hangar, the scout ship
goes eerily silent. Marina and I crouch next to each other, both of us huddled behind the flipped-over metal table. We exchange a look – the table didn’t sustain even a single shot of blaster fire. In fact, it doesn’t seem like the ship’s turret came even close to hitting us.
‘Nice aim, dipshit!’ Nine shouts, laughing. He’s off to the side of the table, flat on the ground, half shielding Eight’s body with his own.
I poke my head out from behind the table. Between us and the scout vessel are a dozen piles of ash,
formerly the Mogadorian mechanics. The ship’s gun turret is still smoking but hangs dormant now, not
the least bit interested in us. Cautiously, I stand up. Marina joins me.
‘What the hell is going on?’ I ask.
‘Who cares?’ Nine says, hefting Eight’s body. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘Perhaps some kind of malfunction?’ Marina proposes, inching closer to the ship, which still
blocks our way out. The three of us spread out, making sure not to stand directly in the path of the
blaster.
‘It only shot the Mogs,’ I say. ‘That’s one convenient malfunction.’
All three of us jump when the ship’s cockpit opens up with a hydraulic hiss. There’s a burst of
static from a speaker in the cockpit, and then a familiar voice rings out.
‘Guys? Can you hear me?’
‘John?’ I exclaim, not believing my ears. The last I saw him, he was in a coma along with Ella. I
sprint to the ship and jump on to its front end, standing over the open cockpit to better hear his voice.
‘It’s me, Six,’ John says. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘See me?’ I ask, then notice the small camera mounted over the cockpit entrance. It wiggles back
and forth, almost nodding in greeting.
‘Dude, what happened?’ Nine asks, eyeing the cockpit skeptically. ‘Is your brain, like, trapped in a
Mogadorian ship now?’
‘What? No, don’t be an idiot,’ John replies, and I can picture the look of annoyed amusement on his
face. ‘We’ve taken over a Mogadorian base and used their tech to hack into this ship.’
‘Nice,’ Nine replies, like that’s all he needed to hear. He jumps effortlessly on to the ship’s hood,
still holding Eight, and lands right beside me. Our side of the saucer-shaped vessel dips a little at his weight before righting itself, the landing gear whining. Nine kicks the metal hull with his heel, testing it out. ‘So this is our ride?’
In answer, the ship’s engine begins to vibrate beneath our feet. I look down into the cockpit – there
are six hard plastic seats in there, along with a blinking dashboard covered in random Mogadorian
symbols and a set of controls that look similar to what you’d find on an airplane. Not that I’ve ever
flown one of those before, much less one made by Mogadorians.
‘We saw what happened in Chicago,’ Marina says, also climbing on to the ship.
‘Is everyone all right?’
‘Yeah,’ John replies quickly, then seems to reconsider. ‘They took Ella, but I don’t think she’s in
danger yet.’
Marina’s eyebrows shoot up in alarm, and I can feel the cold start to roll off her. ‘What do you
mean they took her?’
‘I’ll explain everything when you get in the air,’ John says. ‘First, let’s get you out of there.’
‘Sounds good,’ Nine replies, and hops down into the cockpit, gently placing Eight’s body across a
couple of the seats.
‘Uh, John, one problem,’ I say, following Nine into the antiseptic-smelling Mog ship. ‘How are we
supposed to fly this thing?’
There’s a pause on John’s end and then a different voice responds, this one with a harsh accent that
makes my shoulders tense.
‘I could fly you remotely, but I’m worried hacking into the ship’s computer might have damaged
some of the auto-navigation protocols. It’ll be safer if you do it manually with me walking you
through it,’ the Mogadorian explains quickly. Then, as if realizing we might be freaked out, the guy
adds, ‘Hey. I’m Adam.’
‘The guy Malcolm told us about,’ I say, remembering that dinner conversation.
‘Don’t worry, Six,’ Sam’s voice interjects, and I can’t help but grin at the sound of it. ‘He’s totally not evil.’
‘Oh, well, in that case, let’s fly,’ Nine says sarcastically, but settles into one of the hard-backed
plastic seats all the same. I hop into the pilot’s chair. Marina hesitates for a moment, giving the
console where the Mog’s voice came from a look of distrust.
‘How do we know that’s really John?’ she asks. ‘Setrákus Ra can change forms. This might be
some kind of trap.’ In my excitement to hear John and Sam, I hadn’t even considered the possibility
that this could be a ploy. Behind me, Nine shouts towards the communicator.
‘Hey, Johnny, remember back in Chicago? When you were claiming to be Pittacus Lore and we had
a debate about whether to go to New Mexico?’
‘Yeah,’ John’s voice sounds like it’s coming through clenched teeth.
‘How’d we settle that?’
John sighs. ‘You dangled me off the edge of the roof.’
Nine grins like that’s the best thing ever. ‘It’s definitely him.’
‘Marina,’ John says, probably thinking Nine’s little test wasn’t good enough. ‘The first time we
met, you healed two bullet wounds in my ankle. And then we almost got hit by a missile.’
A small smile forms on Marina’s face, the first I’ve seen in days. ‘I thought you were about the
coolest guy I’d ever met, John Smith.’
Nine barks out a laugh at that, shaking his head. Marina climbs aboard, taking a seat next to Eight’s
body. She drapes a hand protectively on the body bag and settles in.
‘Watch your heads,’ Adam warns as the cockpit hisses closed above us. There’s a moment where I
feel a sense of panic at being sealed inside a Mogadorian ship, but I shove that feeling down and
tightly clutch the steering apparatus. It’s dim in the cockpit, the glass having a tinted sunglasses-like look. Streams of data in compressed Mogadorian symbols are projected directly on to the glass, the
readouts something only a Mog pilot could make sense of.
‘All right,’ I say. ‘What now?’
‘Hold up,’ Nine interjects, leaning forward. ‘How come you get to drive?’
Adam’s voice comes through clear, patient but authoritative. ‘Turn the wheel in front of you. That
will rotate the ship.’
I do as he instructs, the wheel turning easily, the saucer portion of the ship doing a 180 without the wheels moving at all. I stop turning when we’re pointed towards the hangar’s exit.
‘Good,’ Adam says. ‘Now, the lever on your left moves the wheels.’
I grip the lever and push it just a tad. The ship jerks forward almost immediately. The controls are
sensitive, and it doesn’t take much pressure to get us slowly rolling out on to the runway.
‘Give it some gas, Six, damn,’ Nine complains. ‘Drive it like we stole it.’
‘Don’t listen to him,’ Marina says, hugging herself.
‘If you’re out from under the hangar, you can stop,’ Adam instructs.
I look up through the glass of the cockpit, see only sky and so let go of the lever. The ship creaks to a stop.
‘Okay,’ Adam says. ‘Now, grasp the wheel in front of you at three and nine. Do you feel the
triggers?’
I take the wheel again and feel around for the two buttons indented in its underside. ‘Got ’em,’ I