The Lost Files: The Fallen Legacies

“Look,” says one of the techs, “something is happening.”

I turn my attention to the screen, where Hoyle’s bus has jerked to a sudden stop. The doors fly open, and panicked passengers begin streaming off.

One of the rear windows explodes outward, a man flying through it. Before he can hit the ground, his body disintegrates into ash.

“He’s onto us,” observes the other tech, both of them leaning forward to watch the action.

Bright flashes of gunfire pop across the screen, and then the back of the bus goes up in flames. As it does, I watch Conrad Hoyle emerge from the front doors. He’s much larger than his picture indicated.

Hoyle holds a submachine gun in each hand.

“By Ra,” says the tech, sounding almost giddy, “he’s going to be a tough one.”

“We should be out there!” grumbles the other.

Most of the pedestrians are fleeing the scene of the flaming bus, like any sane person would. Except there are others that move towards the wreck: men in dark trench coats, shoving their way through the frightened crowd. The Mogadorian strike team has arrived. They’re greeted by a hail of gunfire from Hoyle, and they quickly take cover before shooting back.

If my father and Ivan aren’t out there yet, enduring Hoyle’s fire, they will be soon. I should take pleasure in this noble combat, like the techs are, but I don’t. I don’t want to see Hoyle, a Loric enemy whom I’ve never even met, be murdered. Yet despite my conflicted feelings about the mission, I also don’t want to see my father turned into a pile of ash.

My only choice is to turn away.

The techs are so absorbed by the action, they don’t hear when the station monitoring internet activity chimes. I inch my chair over to the screen, squinting at a red-flagged blog posting.

It reads: Nine, now eight. Are the rest of you out there?

CHAPTER 16

It takes only a few keystrokes to isolate the blog posting’s IP address-it’s here in London. The techs aren’t paying any attention to me, especially now that calls for tactical support are coming in. Hoyle is proving to be one hell of a distraction.

A few keystrokes more and I’ve pinpointed the location to an address only a few blocks from the Mogadorian base.

I’ve discovered the location of a fugitive Garde. Not the General, not Ivan. Me. For a moment, I feel a swelling of pride. Take that, Ivan. I guess growing big and strong doesn’t count for everything after all.

Now, what do I do with this information?

I should turn the Garde’s location over to the techs, have them call my father back from battle. It would mean major glory for myself and my family, and another step for Mogadorian progress.

It’s what I was raised to do. And I almost do it. But as soon as the thrill of discovery passes, I realize I don’t want that at all.

I want to help this Garde. Maybe I can prevent another scene like Malaysia.

Wait. Is that what I want, or is that one of One’s suggestions, a thought left over from traveling through her memories? If I’m hallucinating her, is there even a difference between One’s thoughts and my own anymore?

“Deep stuff,” says One, peering at the computer screen over my shoulder. “Maybe sort out your philosophical questions after we’ve saved this one’s life, hmm?”

That settles it. I minimize the report before the techs have a chance to see it and slip out of the room. I run down hallways now empty of personnel, all of them having joined the ambush on Hoyle. The way I figure it, I’ve got only as long as Hoyle can keep fighting. After that, the techs will most certainly discover the blog post and relay the details to the strike team.

I’m already winded when I reach the street. I have to push myself. My leg muscles feel about ready to snap after years of disuse; my lungs are on fire, gray spots floating in and out of my vision.

Still, I strip off my coat, which marks me as a Mogadorian, and begin to run. Sirens sound in the distance, the local authorities on their way to the site of the battle.

It takes me ten minutes to get to the quiet backstreet where the building is. I can’t believe the Garde safe house was right under our noses. If we had waited, Conrad Hoyle would have come to us, and all the mayhem on the streets could have been avoided. Of course, it’s lucky for me that things played out like they did.

I’m gasping for breath as I stand at the doorway to the building. It’s an old redbrick town house, now home to three apartments, according to the buzzers outside. Luckily, an old woman is just leaving to walk her white, puffy dog, and I’m able to catch the front door before it closes. I race to the second-floor apartment, the only one not to have a name stickered to the buzzer downstairs.

I pound on the apartment door, probably too hard. If I was a fugitive Garde, that kind of loud knocking would send me running for the fire escape. I hear startled movement inside the apartment, a TV being muted, and then silence.

I knock again, gentler this time, and press my ear to the door.

Muffled footsteps pad closer to the other side of the door, but the girl says nothing.

“Open the door,” I whisper, trying to keep my voice gentle and urgent. “You’re in danger.”

No response.

“Your Cepan sent me,” I try. “You need to get out of here.”

There’s a lengthy pause, and then a small voice answers. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

Good question, but I don’t have time for this. By now Conrad Hoyle has probably been overcome by the Mogadorian strike team. I could tell this girl that her Cepan is as good as dead, that my people will be here soon. I could try breaking down the door, but I doubt I have the strength.

Just like that, One is standing next to me in the hallway. Her face is somber and distant.

“Tell her about the night they came,” says One. “The night your people came.”

I think back to One’s memory of the airstrip, the frightened faces around her, the mad dash towards the ship.

“I remember the night they came,” I begin, uncertainly at first but gaining confidence as I go. “There were nine of us and our Cepans, all running panicked. We saw a Garde fight off a piken. I don’t think he survived. Then they pushed us onto the ship and …”

I trail off, recounting the last night of Lorien making me feel strangely sad. I glance to where One was standing, but she’s disappeared back into my head.

A half dozen deadbolt locks are unlatched, and the apartment door swings open.

CHAPTER 17

Her alias is Maggie Hoyle.

From what little I saw of Conrad Hoyle, I’m expecting Maggie to be a minimilitant in training. Instead, she is the polar opposite of her Cepan. Maggie can’t be more than twelve years old; and she’s small for her age, mousey, with a mane of reddish-brown curls hanging on either side of a pair of thick glasses. The only sign of Hoyle’s influence is the small handgun she’s holding when I walk in, the kind of polite-looking weapon a rich lady might carry with her in a bad neighborhood. Maggie looks relieved to set the gun down as soon as the door is locked behind me.

“Is Conrad all right?” she asks me.

The muted TV in the corner of the small flat is tuned to a news report, a helicopter filming the burning wreckage of Hoyle’s bus. It looks like the fight is over. We have to move quickly.

“I don’t know,” I tell her, not wanting to say that I doubt her Cepan survived. We need to get moving, and I