None of that interests me as much as the old man seated at the edge of the suite’s slept-in king-size bed. He watches the TV through the open bedroom doorway, maybe too weak to walk himself into the penthouse’s living room.

“Goddamn, dude,” Nine exclaims, upon seeing Sanderson. “What is wrong with you?”

I’ve seen a lot of pictures of Bud Sanderson over the last few days. The first was on They Walk Among Us, Sanderson as an old man with thinning white hair, jowls and a paunch. On the website, in a tabloid-style story I didn’t think too much about, Mark James accused Sanderson of using some kind of Mogadorian antiaging treatment. The next time I saw Sanderson was in Agent Walker’s file, having lunch with a disguised Setrákus Ra, hale and hearty, silver hair full and slicked back, looking like he might jog a few miles after his Cobb salad.

The Sanderson in front of me doesn’t look like either of those pictures. Nine and I walk into the bedroom to get a closer look, Walker lingering behind. The secretary of defense is a frail old man, his hunched body wrapped up in a puffy hotel robe. The right side of his face looks saggy and collapsed—his eye socket droops, and his jawline disappears beneath folds of loose skin. His white hair is badly thinned, a comb-over barely managing to hide a smattering of age spots. He smiles at us—or maybe it’s a grimace—his teeth yellow, gums receding. In the open neck of his robe and along his forearms, I notice some prominent veins that are discolored black.

“Number Four and Number Nine,” Sanderson says, pointing a shaky finger at me and then Nine. He doesn’t seem offended at all by Nine’s grossed-out reaction, doesn’t even seem to have noticed. “Your pictures have been crossing my desk for years. Furtive shots from security cameras and the like. I practically watched you boys grow up.”

Sanderson sounds like a reminiscent, doddering grandfather. I’m completely taken aback. I’d been expecting a sellout politician to try hitting me with talking points on Mogadorian Progress. This guy barely looks capable of getting up from his bed, much less giving a speech in front of the UN.

“And you . . .” Sanderson tilts his head to get a look at Walker. “You’re one of mine, aren’t you?”

“Special Agent Karen Walker,” she replies, stepping into the doorway. “Not one of yours. I serve humanity now, sir.”

“Well, that’s nice,” Sanderson says dismissively. He doesn’t seem at all interested in her. The way his beady, black eyes settle on Nine and me, like we’re his long-lost relatives gathered around his deathbed, makes me seriously uncomfortable. Even Nine has slipped into an awkward silence.

I notice a small kit on the bed next to Sanderson. It contains a few sleek syringes filled with a dark liquid that reminds me vaguely of Piken blood.

I take a step towards him, my voice low. “What did they do to you?”