Not that it does much good. Within minutes, my arms feel like noodles, my legs hurt, and my back is killing me. We’re not even halfway to where we need to be. This isn’t going to work. Finally, when I drop the Mogadorian to the ground to catch my breath, he stirs.

“Hey,” I say. “Can you hear me?”

“Uhhhrm,” he replies. Well, it’s not that helpful, but it’s better than nothing, I figure.

“Hey, listen,” I try again. “We’ve got to get out of here. Can you walk?”

He peers up at me, his heavy brow furrowed, and I can guess why. He’s trying to figure out who I am and what I’m doing here. I’m covered in grime so he probably can’t tell that I don’t have the skull tattoo that denotes Mogadorian rank, and he looks up at me in confusion.

I don’t have time for him to be confused, or time for him to come to his senses—assuming he ever will. We have to get out of here now. I have no idea whether there are any others still alive elsewhere on the base, or if reinforcements are on the way. Plus, I’m half expecting the whole place to go up flames at any second. That’s if I don’t die of thirst before it happened.

I try a different tack. I speak to him in our native Mogadorian tongue, the language that’s mostly only ever used now for ceremonial purposes. I quote the Good Book. “Strength is sacred,” I say. It’s one of the most important tenets in Mogadorian society. His eyes come into focus.

“On your feet, soldier!” I snap. I’m only half-surprised when it does the trick and he slowly levers himself up onto one knee and raises himself to his feet. Typical Mogadorian—there’s nothing my people respond to more enthusiastically than empty authority. He’s swaying a bit as he comes to a standing position. His left arm is hanging funny, and he’s pale, sweat popping out across his forehead and along his upper lip, but he’s up. For now.

“Let’s go,” I tell him, pointing toward the opening high above. “March.” Without a word he lumbers past me.

I follow him, realizing that I’m not in much better shape than he is. As we scramble over the heaps of rubble, I find myself thinking of Sam and Malcolm. I hope they made it out of here okay. My cell phone got crushed when I brought down the base, so I can’t call Malcolm to find out what happened, arrange somewhere to meet up, or even ask for help. All I can do is have some hope.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PITTACUS LORE is Lorien’s ruling Elder. He has been on Earth preparing for the war that will decide Earth’s fate. His whereabouts are unknown.

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