But Zakos is right. Beloved Leader comes first, always. Though he told me to crush the Loric, I can’t be responsible for prolonging his recovery. And besides, the best way to ensure their demise is to have Setrákus Ra giving orders. He saved our people. He crushed Lorien. Earth is his whenever he decides that he wants it.
If I should be put to death for letting the Loric escape, so be it. So long as Beloved Leader walks among his subjects at full power once more.
I go back to the bridge.
“Update me,” I say.
“We’ll be crossing the United States border in ten minutes,” the navigator says. “We’ve gained on them slightly, but they’ve got a hell of a pilot. We’re having trouble closing the gap, and they’re outside of our weapons’ range.”
I nod.
“Send as many Skimmers as we can spare after that ship, but the Anubis is disengaging,” I say. “Plot us a course for the West Virginia base.”
“Would Beloved Leader . . . ,” the navigator says, unsure of how to finish the sentence.
“Now,” I shout.
And then I’m forced to watch as the Loric ship disappears from our radar screen.
CHAPTER THREE
I GO BACK TO THE MEDICAL BAY AS WE SHOOT towards West Virginia. The doctors there have removed most of the pipe in Beloved Leader’s chest using some sort of laser. Now it sticks out just an inch above his body.
“He’s alive, but barely,” the trueborn in charge whispers to me when I pull him aside.
“He is fine,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “To say otherwise would be heresy. Remember that.”
“Of course,” he says quickly. “I’ll make sure my staff remembers that as well.”
It’s early morning when we land, still dark. Before we move his gurney out, I instruct the doctors to put a sheet over him, just in case there are stray troops roaming around somewhere. They shouldn’t see him like this. No one should.
Dr. Zakos is waiting for us outside along with half a dozen other trueborn scientists who serve as his staff.
“Straight to the vats,” he says to two of his men, who sprint inside with Beloved Leader’s body. Then he motions to the others. “The rest of you retrieve any Loric energy the Anubis managed to siphon out of the ground at the Sanctuary. You know what to do.”
The men grunt and make haste. Zakos then turns to me. “You did well, Phiri Dun-Ra. Beloved Leader will surely commend you.”
“How long do you think he’ll be out?” I ask.
“Hard to tell based on the reports the doctors sent. But he should regain some consciousness soon after he’s put into the vats. Unless his injuries are worse than anticipated.” Zakos casts a wary eye on the ship behind me. “I’m impressed you made it here so quickly.”
“The crew of the Anubis are our best,” I say. “They know how to push the ship to its limits.”
“Yes.” He rubs his chin. “Quite the crew indeed. Given everything they’ve witnessed, I wonder if they should stay on the ship and make sure everything’s in working order.” He gestures to scorch marks on one side of the hull. “Plenty of repairs and diagnostics to be run, I imagine.”
I see what he’s getting at. Our leader will be okay—he’ll awaken stronger than ever, no doubt—but there’s no reason for the rest of our fleet to know that our commander is healing in the vats. The fewer people who know about what happened at the Sanctuary, the better. When Beloved Leader is at the helm again, none of this will matter, anyway.
“I’ll take care of it,” I say.
“Good.” Zakos nods. “Most of our higher-ranking officers are on warships at this point, but those who are still here are aware of your homecoming. I believe your old quarters inside are vacant, if you’d like to use them.”
I nod.
“And I’d recommend a cryo pack for the eye. It looks like shit.”
“I’ve been in battle,” I say. “Not holed up in safety experimenting on piken.”
“As Beloved Leader’s most trusted disciple, the one in charge of overseeing his plans for Mogadorian Progress, it’s in the fleet’s best interest to keep me safe, isn’t it?” He turns to the base, talking over his shoulder. “I’ll need some time alone with him. Come see me in a few hours. We’ve much to talk about. I think you’ll find what I’m working on very interesting.”
I wonder what this might mean. With Zakos, it’s never easy to tell. I turn back to the Anubis. A few of the ship’s crew are loitering at the end of the loading ramp.
“Back to your posts,” I shout at them.
I follow them aboard and patch myself into the PA system.
“This is Phiri Dun-Ra, voice of Beloved Leader,” I say. “All crew members and troops stationed aboard the Anubis are to stay on the ship until further notice. In addition, we are now on a communications lockdown. Any off-ship transmissions must be cleared with Beloved Leader first.”
Then I head off the ship.
It’s been so long since I’ve been inside the base that I’m unprepared for the acrid smell of it. It looks the same, except that the rivers of green liquid that flowed through the main chamber have been replaced by a viscous black ooze, not unlike what Setrákus Ra uses to augment and better our forces—probably due to whatever experiments and further augmentations Beloved Leader began testing since I left. Still, my mind floods with memories of this place, of training troops and demanding the best of every vatborn Mogadorian sent to me, breaking whips and stun rods over their backs when they weren’t up to snuff. I pass the piken and kraul pens and the cell blocks where I watched humans, Loric allies, and even the occasional Cêpan or Garde cower in fear. I can’t see them, but I know the interrogation chambers are past the cells, stocked with all sorts of instruments and tools designed to extract information.
I didn’t realize how much I’d missed this place.
I ignore my quarters and head instead to the central command room, the heart of Mogadorian Progress. I want to know what’s happening with the rest of our operations. Unlike the rock walls of the main chamber, it’s sleek, every surface a dull-gray metal. Computers and monitors cover the walls. A table in the center of the room displays a digital map of our warships across the globe. Most of the trueborn inside appear to be young officers-in-training.
“Phiri Dun-Ra,” a gravelly bass voice says.
I turn to find General Krah. In the grand scheme of things, it’s rare that a Mogadorian dies of old age. So much of our lives are spent fighting that we tend not to expire from “natural causes.” Krah may prove to be an exception, though, and not because he’s shied away from battle. The trueborn’s face is a web of scar tissue and unnatural grooves.
“General Krah,” I say, nodding to him in deference.
He crosses the room in a few heavy steps. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter so that only I can hear it. I brace myself. When I was kicked out of the mountain base, Krah was one of the officers responsible for choosing where I would be relocated.
“Dr. Zakos informed me of the situation you found yourself in.” He narrows his one good eye at me, studying my face. The other is a milky white, rendered useless by some injury long ago.