I Am Number Four - Pittacus Lore Page 0,4

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