I Am Number Four - Pittacus Lore Page 0,18

up as a navigator. The recycled air of the warship has taken some getting used to, but all in all, it could be worse. At least I’ve got a good view. From the windows looking out from the front of the ship’s bridge, I see mostly an expansive lake that seems to go on forever, disappearing on the horizon. It’s nice. I’ve even rotated the warship to get a better view. Just slightly, so none of the other trueborn milling around the bridge notice.

It’s probably more chaotic in the city itself, where evacuations continue. We allow the people of Earth to run, knowing that eventually—inevitably—they’ll bow before us. The fewer casualties we cause among their population, the more humans we’ll have working for us once we take over completely. They’ll gather resources for us, build shrines in our honor and palaces for our war heroes. Or they’ll die. That’s the Mogadorian way. Or that’s Beloved Leader’s way, and therefore ours.

I wonder where those who are running are going, where they think they can escape to. I’ve crossed the country below, hitchhiking and hopping trains. I’ve spent time among the humans. They’re a resilient species, if a bit lacking in technological advances. But they’re severely outgunned. They must realize that after the destruction of New York, which, from what I understand, is—was—one of their most splendid cities.

I almost want to help them.

I shake my head, trying to get rid of such thoughts. I focus on the water, letting my fingers connect the dots of stars reflected off of the lake below. Trying to think of nothing at all.

Eventually there’s a hiss of pressurized air behind me as one of the doors to the bridge slides open.

“I want status updates from every department,” a voice barks, snapping me back to reality.

I recognize immediately that it’s Captain Jax-Har and turn, posture rigid at attention. Medals decorate both sides of his uniform. A sheen of sweat on his head causes his complicated skull tattoos to shine under the lights. Two other trueborn follow after him: our communications officer, Denbar, and Mirra, one of the few trueborn females in our military. All their faces are blank but look somehow paler than usual. I wonder where they’re coming from within the ship and what they’ve been talking about. Even though I’m a trueborn officer, I still lack top-level security clearance. Plenty of meetings take place without me being present. The fact that I’m kept in the dark is the captain’s decision. I understand his hesitation to include me since I’ve only recently been assigned to his crew. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that when Jax-Har looks at me, he knows the truth, somehow, someway. That I helped Adamus. That I killed our own people. That I betrayed Beloved Leader.

I remind myself for the thousandth time that if anyone really did think this, I’d be executed without hesitation. But the paranoia remains. Maybe because I myself have trouble understanding my past actions and why I helped Adamus when I could have easily left him locked up on Plum Island. Why I betrayed my people just to help an enemy (even if at moments during our time together, we felt like something else, like friends).

Or maybe it’s just that spending so many days with Adamus awakened something in me. A series of questions I consciously try not to ask, a secret I keep locked away in the darkest part of my head that surfaces every night when I’m alone, half asleep, guard down.

Because of Adamus, I have doubts about the Mogadorian cause.

“Officer Saturnus!” The captain steps over to me. I bow slightly in acknowledgment, and then we stand facing one another at the center of the window. I’m bigger and stronger than most Mogadorian troops—even many trueborn—but Jax-Har towers over me.

“How long would it take us to reach Beloved Leader’s base of operations?” he asks.

“One moment, sir,” I say, walking back to my terminal, where I tap on a keyboard and bring various figures up on the screen. “We could be at the West Virginia base in approximately two hours.”

Jax-Har nods but doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, looking over my shoulder at nothing. A few seconds pass in silence.

“Shall I . . . plot a course?” I ask.

His eyes snap into focus as he scowls at me.

“Did I give you that order?” he spits.

“No, sir,” I mutter.

He turns away, shouting at Denbar, who stands in front of a large computer terminal on the other side