The Guard (5 page)

BY THE TIME THE MOGS MAKE THEIR BIG PLAY
in Paradise, years have passed and I’ve settled into a new base: an old orchard and pecan-processing plant in Georgia.

It’s so obvious to me when I read the reports—both public and those I find in the Paradise Police Department’s files—that this is a Mog incident. Something big. The Mogs wouldn’t just attack a high school without a reason. Especially not one that happened to be located in the small town where Malcolm Goode lived.

I think back to what Malcolm had told me about one of the Cêpans saying he’d return to Paradise when his Garde was of age. When I find the YouTube clip of a boy who goes by the name John Smith basically flying out of a burning house, my assumptions are confirmed. At least one of the Garde faced off against the Mogs in Ohio.

I write up a big story on “Aliens Anonymous,” positing that the incident at Paradise High School is somehow related to alien activity. I don’t mention the Mogs or Loric by name. The trick to running this blog is playing dumb and never really showing off what I know. I’m baiting the hook, trying to find someone who has more information. The website has grown to have a dedicated user base over the years, and typically it doesn’t take too long for someone to bite.

I don’t get the full story until a user named JOLLYROGER182 contacts me through the site. He tells me what happened at the high school and about the “evil ETs” that he and some of his friends fought off. Within no time, I deduce that his real name is Mark James based on the information he gives out (a love of football, his ex-girlfriend’s name), which I cross-reference against information I find in the Paradise Police Department’s files on the burning down of the James’s residence. He thinks he’s being really sly, but his internet activity is an open book to me until I teach him how to block his IP address and send encrypted messages.

It’s not until I discover that he’s met Number Four and Number Six that I get really interested. Not only am I finally messaging with someone who has had direct contact with some of my people, but from Mark’s stories it sounds as though the Garde are finally coming together. I can’t help but feel a rush of adrenaline
knowing that after all these years the work and planning I’ve been doing might finally be useful, that we can expose the Mogs and the FBI soon.

At first Mark is just another informant. I dumb down my speech and feign excitement when he first brings up the words “Mog” and “Loric,” as if I’ve never heard them before. He seems harmless enough, and I assume his interest will eventually die down—until he mentions that his ex-girlfriend, Sarah Hart, is dating Number Four. When I read this, I almost can’t believe my eyes. Here’s my possible direct link to the Garde. I try to get any information that I can about Four’s whereabouts, but it seems that neither Mark nor Sarah knows where he and Six went when they left Paradise. It feels like something big is about to happen. The Garde and Mogs are coming out into the open. War is finally upon us.

There’s something else too. The FBI start following Mark and Sarah around. An agent gives Mark a contact number, which he then passes on to me. I call it, using a satellite phone and a voice changer just to ensure my anonymity. I get someone I recognize on the other end of the line.

Special Agent Purdy.

My blood starts to boil. I wish I could reach through the phone and smash in his nose again. Instead, I hang up and destroy the phone. Purdy seemed to have a fair
amount of authority in Dulce, and I don’t want to risk him tracking me down using methods that I don’t know about. I can’t be too careful.

And then everything escalates very quickly. Sarah disappears. Mark freaks out. His concern and passion are unbridled, worn on his sleeve. He tries to find her any way he can, his desperation to uncover the truth about what’s been going on rivaling even my own. I find myself talking to him more and more—with far more frequency than with my other contacts. Maybe it’s because this has become personal for him too. I admire his passion.

During his investigations, he discovers print copies of a now-defunct newsletter called
They Walk Among Us
, a publication I’d been feeding information and funds to for years, working to expose the Mogs little by little. He suggests we change the website name to “They Walk Among Us” to attract the newsletter’s readers. I agree. It’s a good idea.

Unfortunately, Mark’s not always the smartest kid. His overzealousness is problematic. He pulls a stunt where he sneaks into the police department looking for clues and sees a Mog for himself—the FBI-and-Mog partnership in action. Mark likely should have ended up in their custody or dead, but with some kind of luck he managed to escape.

With Purdy’s laptop.

Mark messages me after he swipes it:

Mark: They’ve got Sarah in Dulce. At that secret base from TWAU!!

Mark: I’m going after her. I gotta. I’m leaving Paradise right now. We’re gonna bust this thing wide open.

I almost laugh. Of course that’s where she is.

I start to type back to him, warning him that Dulce is a no-go. That it’s too dangerous. But as I’m looking at my satellite feed from the base, I notice something strange. There’s a very subtle glitch in the bottom corner of the screen. I keep watching and realize that I’ve been looking at a loop of the same twenty seconds of footage over and over again from the satellite feed.

Shit.
I curse myself. I don’t appear to have been hacked, but there’s no telling how long I’ve had the fake feed running on my monitor. Why? Was this just an ordinary precaution? Or is there something more to it?

It takes me a few minutes to find a way around the repeating video, and finally the current state of Dulce comes into view. There’s smoke rising from the base, and it looks like several buildings have collapsed.

Something
has gone down very, very recently in Dulce. And I need to know what.

An idea forms in my head. Mark James is going to Dulce. It’s not like I’ll be able to talk him out of it. Not when Sarah is involved. I can help him along the way. Give him supplies. Guide him. In return he’ll tell me what the base is like now. What happened there.

Besides, if he gets taken into custody, he’ll need someone on the outside to try and save him.

And so I respond:

Me: Be careful. The place is probably crawling with Mogs and FBI agents. Don’t do anything stupid.

It only takes a few seconds for him to respond.

Mark: Wouldn’t dream of it.

It takes all of a few hours for Mark to get locked out of Purdy’s computer, and I curse myself for not immediately insisting that he send the damned thing straight to me. It’s probably the same sort of firewall that fried one of my computers in Oregon. We’re possibly kicked out of the machine for good—or at least until I can figure my way around Mog securities—so my focus turns to making sure Mark gets to the Dulce base alive so he can tell me what the hell has happened there. To ensure that this happens, I put together a little care package and meet him in person at a closed-down gas station
on the Colorado–New Mexico border. I manage to get there only a few minutes before he does after driving through the night on my bike, going much, much faster than is either legal or safe. He wouldn’t be talked into waiting a few days, insisting on going straight to Dulce. Not that I blame him—it doesn’t seem like all that long ago that I was in his position.

I give him a box packed with supplies—even one of Raylan’s concussion/EMP grenades that I’ve been carrying around with me from base to base all these years—and have him sign a fake confirmation slip. I play the part of the courier.

He doesn’t think twice about the fact that I can’t be GUARD once he sees me. I’d been ready to play dumb, but I guess after referring to me as “dude” about a hundred times over the last few weeks, he never really gave any thought to the fact that his online partner might be female. I don’t correct him. If for some reason he ends up detained at Dulce and I can’t get him out, it’ll be in my best interest if he can’t identify me.

He looks different in person than in the photos I tracked down of him online. Strung out, with dark circles under his eyes. The events of Paradise and Sarah’s disappearance weigh on his face.

I find myself oddly concerned about him.

“You should get off the road and get some sleep,” I say. “You look like shit.”

I don’t hang around to converse. Instead, I check into a hotel on the Colorado side of the border and wait for him to report back. Part of me feels like I should have given him more warning, but I tell myself again that he’ll be fine. This isn’t like Zophie, when I left her alone, thinking that Janus could still be alive. Mark is well aware of the dangers he’s facing.

The sun is rising when I finally get a message from him. I’d just about given up hope that he was still a free man.

Mark: Dulce’s a bust. FBI is abandoning it. Sarah’s gone. I think John and others got her out.

Me: You got in and out and no one saw you? I’m impressed.

Mark: Nah. Ran in2 agent Walker from Paradise. She let me go. I think she’s turned against the Mogs.

If the Dulce base is being abandoned, now is the time for me to claim my ship. Assuming they didn’t move it while the video loop was in place. The thought fills me with warmth, my blood pumping through my veins. Plus, if the FBI agents at the base have turned on the Mogs, it means at least some of the humans are beginning to see that working alongside those monsters is
a death sentence for the human race. They’re not just blindly following them.

Maybe there’s hope for this species after all,
I think. And in doing so, I realize, perhaps for the first time, what respect I have for Mark. Someone who has been fighting for his friends and his planet this whole time. Trying to save his people from whatever horrible endgame the Mogs are trying to enact.

And here I’ve been, withholding information from him. Using him for my own means. As a pawn.

When it comes down to it, I’m no better than one of the Elders.

Maybe I can make up for that. I wonder what he’s going to do now that Sarah’s not where he thought she would be.

Me: Where are you going now?

Mark: No damn clue. Can’t go home. Bad FBI are still looking for me.

Perhaps it’s the rush of adrenaline pumping through me or that lingering pang of guilt for not being completely honest with him—for whatever reason, I feel like I owe it to Mark to help him. I can guide Mark from afar.

I message him back, instructing him to drive toward
Alabama. I know just the place he can hide out for a while and continue his work: Yellowhammer Ranch. Only, it’s been a while since I’ve been on the property, so I tell him to take his time—that I’ll have a space set up for him just as soon as I get a few personal things in order. The last thing I need is Mark James wandering onto the grounds of Yellowhammer only to get blown up by a defensive trap I forgot to defuse.

I HEAD FOR DULCE. FOR MY SHIP
.

I pass half a dozen black SUVs all speeding through the desert about five miles away from the perimeter of Dulce Base. I consider this fortuitous timing—if these are the FBI agents Mark mentioned, then they have indeed abandoned the place.

Still, I have my reservations about this operation. It’s a bright morning, for one thing, meaning I can’t rely on the cover of night, and the memory of what happened the last time I tried to infiltrate this base is fresh in my mind. But I won’t get another opportunity like this. Who knows how long it will be before the Mogs or the rest of the FBI realize that no one at this base is responding?

Besides, this time I’ve come prepared.

I pause at a section of the fence surrounding the base that’s been destroyed and take out some of the
gear from my backpack—thermal-imagine binoculars that can sense heat signatures through six inches of steel. Nothing pops up on them. At least nothing that reads as a human or Mog. There are a few fires and lights I can make out, but nothing that suggests anyone is patrolling the base.

Regardless, I proceed with caution and park my bike near a pit that’s been created by the roof of the first underground floor of the base collapsing in on itself. I take a look around and note some burned-out Humvees and a knocked-down watchtower. Mark thinks the Garde broke Sarah out, and if that’s the truth, they certainly have grown strong.

I hop down into the base and pull out a small electronic tablet of my own design, part computer and part tracker—a device that can hone in on the frequencies of a Loric ship when within a certain range. I wasn’t sure it would work until now, but it pings, telling me that yes, Janus’s ship is still down here somewhere. Waiting for me.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

The agents must have left the place in a hurry, because every office I pass is disheveled, files strewn about. Several big computer terminals looks damaged, as if in leaving, the FBI didn’t want anyone else getting its information. That’s a concern I can understand. I’ll have to come back up and see what data I can harvest
once I’ve found what I’ve actually come for.

I make my way down several floors. Eventually I get to a hallway that’s dark, lights all knocked out. It’s the only place I’ve been in the base where every door is shut. I make my way through the corridor slowly, on the tips of my toes, trying hard not to make a sound. I pass a door with a slit of a window in it, which I peer through carefully.

A man stares back at me.

He shouts, slamming his fists against the door. He’s got on a white button-down shirt spotted with blood. Suddenly, there’s banging from all the doors in the hallway, and I realize that I must have wandered into some sort of brig or detention area. The sound is deafening, echoing off the hard surfaces of the corridor and destroying all hopes of a stealthy exploration through the remainder of the base.

And so I start to run.

I pass a few laboratories and office spaces before finally flinging open a door that leads to it in all its silvery, beaten-up glory. The ship.

The vessel is big, the size of a house, but with the ability to glide and turn effortlessly through the air. The gleaming metal of its hull shines, even after all these years, made of a material native to Lorien. Its curves are all perfectly rounded, sleek and aerodynamic.

It takes my breath away.

There are all kinds of wires connected to the portion of the hull housing the crystals that supply power to the ship. I find a computer terminal on the opposite side of the room and tap on it, bringing the station to life—now that I’m here, it’s easy to break through their passwords. I try to find some sort of journal or report system, downloading everything I can to my own tablet along the way. From what I can tell, the researchers here have been trying to figure out how to duplicate the crystals’ energy to incorporate it into their own war machines. Their records show that they’ve managed to charge the spent crystals at least a little bit, but that’s all, and the charge only lasts for a short period of time. I doubt I could get out of Earth’s atmosphere on it.

That’s fine for now. At the moment I just want to get out of
here.

With a little more searching, I find controls that appear to operate some sort of dock. I flip them on, and sixty feet above me the ceiling begins to part. Sand, dirt and debris fall in. I narrowly avoid a pile of bricks and what looks like a Humvee tire that come crashing down.

For a second I pause, shaking my head, thinking of how terrible it would be for me to die just as I’ve finally found this ship that I’ve been after for so long.

The hangar doors above me open fully. I take a few steps toward my prize and pause. I can still hear the
whirring noise I’d thought was the door mechanism, getting louder.

It’s then that I see the edge of the Mogadorian ship just over the lip of the hangar. In seconds half a dozen pale, sneering faces are looking down at me, all pointing weapons in my direction.

I duck behind the computer station just as blaster fire starts to fill the air. Sparks rain down around me, burning my skin as the terminal is destroyed. I curse under my breath—hopefully these controls shorting out don’t overload the wires attached to the ship.

I’m too much of a target where I am. The quickest way to stay alive would be to try and cross the room and head back inside the base. At least there I’d have plenty of options for cover. But I have to assume that the Mogs are already starting to filter down through the hallways and stairwells of the facility, and without any idea of how many alien bastards have just landed on the ground level, the base could quickly turn into a death trap. Somewhere I could get boxed in too easily.

Besides, now that I’ve found this ship, I don’t intend to let it out of my sight.

So I reach into my backpack and pull out one of the many toys I’ve acquired and learned to use since the last time I came face-to-face with a Mogadorian: a powerful, compact submachine gun. Earth weapons might be crude and inefficient, but practicing out in
the barns and woods around my many safe houses, I’ve witnessed exactly how devastating they can be.

If I can make it inside the ship and power it up, I may be able to get out of here alive. If not . . . Well, that’s not really an option. I think of Janus and Zophie, and how when I first arrived on this planet I thought for sure that the three of us would one day be riding in this ship together. Now the best I can do is reclaim it for them. For Lorien.

I brace myself as much as I can against the floor, peek over the top of the sparking computer terminal and fire away. A few of the Mogadorians who are descending a zigzag metal staircase from the surface are ripped apart, turning into wafts of dust that filter down into the hangar. The others take quick cover, and I use this moment of surprise to make a break for it, tossing my bag ahead of me and basically throwing myself under the ship in the center of the room, using it for cover. Blaster fire blackens the cement floor, barely missing me. But I make it, somehow.

I’m able to access a manual override switch to the boarding hatch. A metal ramp rolls out from the back of the craft. One of the Mogs from above jumps down, sliding over the ship and onto the ground. There’s a snap when he lands, and when he stands, one of his arms hangs limply at his side. That doesn’t stop him from staggering forward, firing at me. Several of his
fellow troops follow his lead, and I barely manage to climb onto the ramp, firing blindly behind me the entire time. I run, trying to avoid their blasters, but a few shots hit my backpack. I’ve reinforced the thing with Kevlar, mostly to protect my laptop and gadgets inside, but it stops the shots from burning through my body. Still, the force sends me sprawling onto the ramp. I roll over and return fire, scooting as fast as I can towards a touch-screen panel on the wall just inside the ship. I dust one of the Mogs following me as I manage to tap on the screen and get the ramp to start closing in just a couple of seconds—the few years of training I had at the Lorien Defense Academy all coming back to me in a rush.

The other Mog on the ramp stumbles forward as it folds up. He gets thrown past me, deeper into the ship. The interior of the vessel can be programmed with all sorts of holographic partitions and “walls,” but right now it’s just one big, empty room. There’s no place for him to hide, and he’s a pile of ash before he ever manages to pick himself up off the ground.

I run to the front cabin. My hands fly over buttons and screens. In front of me, a Mog has climbed onto the nose of the ship and is hammering away at the tinted cockpit window with the butt of his blaster. He’ll have a hell of a time trying to break through the reinforced glass—I try not to pay any attention to him.

“Come on, come on, come on,” I chant to myself as the instruments start to flicker, going online. And then they come to life, as if goaded on by my will. The crystals still have some life in them.

I can feel the engines powering up, the reassuring hum and slight vibration that permeate the entire ship. I engage auto-launch protocols, which should at least get me up into the sky, where I can chart a course or take over the controls myself. The Mog on the windshield struggles to find his balance as the ship starts to shake and lift off the ground. He howls as he falls backwards, tumbling to the cement below.

It’s working,
I think.
I’m getting out of here.

My eyes widen as I get to the ground level. Sitting in front of me is the small Mogadorian ship I’d spotted from below, but also a large one that must be used to move troops around the planet—
lots
of troops. Mogs mill about around it, all their eyes on my silver craft. They freeze for only an instant before they start to fire. What looks like a cannon on the bigger ship turns towards me. Who knows what kind of firepower a vessel like that might have?

I flit through the on-screen menus in front of me until I find what appears to be a log of the ship’s weaponry. Most vessels on Lorien were unarmed, but I guess the Elders equipped this one with every possible armament it could carry. Weapons I’ve never even heard of
before. I wonder, again, how far their planning went and how long they knew that the Mogs were coming for us. I don’t have long to reflect, though, because I’ve still got guns trained on me. And so I touch an icon that appears to be some sort of grenade projectile and target the enemy ship.

A small sphere of energy shoots from just below the cockpit. It sticks to the side of the rising Mogadorian vessel. Nothing happens.

Shit.

I can see the Mog cannon powering up, energy gathering around it. I tap on the weapons screen again.

“Don’t tell me you’re a dud, you son of a—”

The sphere explodes in a wave of energy that knocks back my own ship. The autopilot levels me off, and then I take over the controls and hit the accelerator, flying high into the sky, far, far above New Mexico, shouting at the top of my lungs as I dart through the air. I check my radar, but there’s no one following me. I swing the vessel around, surveying the damage from hundreds of feet above in the clear sky. The Mog ships don’t exist anymore. There’s nothing
left
to follow me—only blazing hunks of twisted metal.

Energy courses through me, filling my head with fuzzy warmth.

“We did it,” I say before I realize the words are even coming out of my mouth. “We have the ship.”

I’m not sure who I’m talking to, who the “we” is—if I’m addressing Zophie, or the other Garde spread across the planet, or even Mark, my unwitting partner in this Dulce operation.

On the way back I stop over at Yellowhammer Ranch, setting the ship down in the backyard by the dilapidated barn. The place looks untouched since the last time I saw it—if not a bit overgrown. I find one of the keys hidden in a sliding panel on the side of the house and go inside, pulling off some of the drop cloths that are still on the furniture. I reprogram the door to the secret office to open to Mark’s fingerprint, which I have on file thanks to the fingerprint ID system in the laptop I sent him charging into Dulce with.

Inside the office I take stock of the weapons organized on shelves against one wall, and then boot up the security system, checking to make sure all my cameras are still in operation. A few electronic trip wires and traps are still live around the ranch, but I disable them so that Mark isn’t met with an automated weapon upon his arrival. I can always teach him to reset them later, when he’s settled in.

I keep the bomb beneath the office primed, ready to be set off in the event that the safe house falls into enemy hands. Just in case.

This will make a nice home for Mark. At least for the
time being. Until I can figure out what to do with him, or until he finally manages to get in contact with Sarah and the rest of the Garde.

I wonder if I should just wait here for him, to reveal myself to him in person. I have the ship, after all. Things are going well.

But I recognize this feeling. The thought that things are finally going my way and that everything’s falling into place. Every time I’ve allowed myself to be comforted by such hope, things have gone terribly wrong. People have died. My world shattered, needing to be rebuilt.

I just need a little more time. To patch up the ship and figure out my next move. And he needs to recoup too. I’m not ready to lead my protégé into battle. Not yet.

In the morning I’ll take the motorbike stored in the old barn into town and bring back a few fresh supplies for Mark: food, water, extra ammunition. A small gesture of thanks for being my first set of eyes on Dulce Base. For now, though, I scrawl a note in thick black marker on the back of a folder and set it beside a shotgun for him to find later.

    
I hope you’re ready for war.

    
-G