I Am Number Four - Pittacus Lore Page 0,19

of the bridge.

“Get me an open channel broadcasting to the Anubis and the base in West Virginia.”

Denbar does so. When Jax-Har speaks again, his voice booms, filling the room.

“This is Captain Jax-Har of Warship Delta, currently stationed above the Canadian city of Toronto.” He pauses momentarily, brow furrowing for a few seconds before continuing. “We are awaiting orders and requesting guidance from Beloved Leader so that we may forge ahead and ensure Mogadorian Progress. Please advise.”

Something about this is odd. I listen to his words and try to piece together why he seems so flustered—almost nervous. He’s been doing stuff like this all day, sometimes asking about the whereabouts of a supposed Loric ship, other times contacting West Virginia just to “check in.” Then I realize why this seems so odd: he’s actually asking for commands. Either he’s gotten bored waiting for action and is succumbing to some sort of bloodlust or . . .

Has something happened in the fleet that I don’t know about? When was the last time we did get an order from Setrákus Ra?

What is Beloved Leader doing now?

The captain motions to Denbar, who cuts off the line.

“Alert me immediately if we receive a response,” Jax-Har says. He takes a few steps towards his captain’s chair before stopping, looking at me over his shoulder. “And, Officer Saturnus, if I find you away from your terminal during one of your shifts again, I’ll have your feet nailed to the floor in front of it. We’re not here on a sightseeing mission.”

“Sir,” I say again.

“Captain!” Denbar rushes to him, holding out an electronic pad. “We’ve received a message from our people in the American capital. Level-one clearance.”

In a few long steps, Jax-Har crosses the bridge, swiping the tablet from his subordinate’s hand. His face flashes with concern for only a moment.

“Come with me,” he says, motioning to the officer.

Mirra, who’s been busying herself reading ship diagnostics, steps forward.

“Captain, shall I—,” she starts.

“Stay here,” Jax-Har says. “Make sure the rest of the crew is in order.”

Denbar winks at her. Jax-Har glances at me again, and then the two men are gone, out the doorway.

Frustration flashes on Mirra’s face. There’s a ruthlessness and cunning behind her eyes that I’ve only ever seen from our most feared warriors, which is kind of terrifying since, of everyone on the ship, she’s perhaps the only person I’m friendly with. We both grew up in Ashwood Estates. She’s several years older than me, though, so I don’t have much memory of her. Now, she’s Jax-Har’s second-in-command. Or she’s supposed to be, at least. I get the feeling that Denbar’s trying to take that position away from her, which is probably why they always seem to be at each other’s throats.

I start over to her, hoping that whatever annoyance she’s feeling will make her more willing to tell me what’s got the captain so upset. Then I remember Jax-Har’s words and pause, standing awkwardly in the middle of the bridge for a moment before taking a few steps back.

Mirra notices, and stomps over to me.

“Is there a problem, Saturnus?” she asks.

“You know, you can call me Rexicus,” I say. “Actually, back home and at the Dulce base, most people called me Rex.”

“I’m aware.”

Perhaps “friendly” isn’t the best way to describe my relationship with Mirra. It might be more accurate to say that I sometimes try to strike up conversations with her about growing up on Earth, and so far she hasn’t shoved a sword through my stomach.

I try to soften her up.

“Did you see the moon reflecting off the water?” I ask. “It reminds me of that park a couple miles south of Ashwood. Did you ever go there?”

“Is this why it looked like you were about to defy the captain’s order and step away from your station just now? To reminisce about an orbiting satellite as seen in a man-made pond? You’re not a child, Saturnus.”

She knows about the pond.

“So you have been to the park.”

Mirra turns her back to me and starts to walk away.

“Wait,” I say, a little too loudly. I glance around, but the handful of other trueborn officers around are minding their own business. Or at least pretending to.

She faces me again, the brow over one dark eye raised in annoyance.

“Are things . . . okay?” I ask as quietly as I can. “Normal? With the ship and everything that’s going on? With the invasion? Things just seem . . . tense.”

“What do you mean?” Her face may as well