Next to me, Marina gazes at the Sanctuary through the Skimmer’s window. Because we left the floodlights on, the entire temple is lit up, the ancient limestone practically glowing.

“Don’t lose hope, Six,” Marina says quietly. “We’ll figure this out.”

When Adam turns the dial again, the static is replaced by a guttural Mogadorian voice. The Mog speaks in a clipped, no-nonsense way, like he’s reading items off a list. Of course, I can’t understand a word of what he’s saying.

I elbow Adam. “You going to translate?”

“I . . .” Adam, staring at the radio like it’s possessed, doesn’t know what to say. I quickly realize that he doesn’t want to tell me what news is coming in over the radio.

“How bad?” I ask, keeping my voice level. “Just tell me how bad.”

Adam clears his throat and shakily begins to translate. “Moscow, moderate resistance. Cairo, no resistance. Tokyo, no resistance. London, moderate resistance. New Delhi, moderate resistance. Washington, D.C., no resistance. Beijing, high resistance, preservation protocols lifted—”

“What are these?” I cut him off, losing patience with the droning. “Their attack plans?”

“They’re status reports, Six,” Adam says, his voice low. “Warships are reporting in on how the invasion is progressing. Each of those cities has one of the huge warships backing up an occupation effort, and they aren’t the only ones . . .”

“It’s happening?” Marina asks, sitting forward. “I thought we had more time.”

“The fleet is on Earth,” Adam replies, his face blank.

“What did that thing mean about preservation protocols?” I ask. “You said they were lifted in Beijing.”

“Preservation protocols are Setrákus Ra’s way of keeping Earth intact for long-term occupation. If they’re lifted in Beijing, it means they’re destroying the city,” Adam says. “Using it to send a message to other cities that might cause trouble.”

“My God . . . ,” Marina whispers.

“One warship alone could destroy a city in a few hours,” Adam continues. “If they . . .”

He trails off, some new status on the radio getting his attention. He swallows and turns the dial hard, lowering the volume on reports of Mogadorian success.

I grab him by the shoulder. “What is it? What did you hear?”

“New York . . . ,” he begins grimly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “New York, Garde-assisted resistance . . .”

“That’s us! That’s John!”

Adam shakes his head, finishing the translation. “Garde-assisted resistance overcome. Incursion successful.”

“What does that mean?” Marina asks.

“It means they’ve won,” Adam replies darkly. “They’ve conquered New York City.”

They’ve won. The phrase repeats itself in my mind.

They’re taking over and we’re stranded down here.