I wish I could just sleep through this.

They did something to me after the gash opened up on my shoulder. I was in and out of consciousness from blood loss, so my memory is foggy. I can remember Setrákus Ra carrying me down to the medical bay, a place on the ship I hadn’t had the bad luck to explore until then. I remember them injecting my wound with something black and oozing. I’m pretty sure that I screamed from the pain. But then my wound started to close. It wasn’t like the times I’d been healed by Marina or John. In those cases, it felt like my injuries were knitting back together, like my flesh was regrowing. Under the Mogs’ “care,” it felt like my flesh was being replaced by something else, something cold and foreign. Something alive and hungry.

I can still feel it, crawling around beneath the perfect, pale skin of my now uninjured shoulder.

Setrákus Ra flips a few switches on the console, and our little spherical ship powers up. The walls become translucent. It’s the Mogadorian version of tinted glass, though—we can see out, but no one can see in.

I turn my head to study the docking bay that’s crowded with combat-ready Mogadorians. They all stand perfectly still, hundreds of them arranged in orderly lines, all of them with their fists clenched over their hearts. They’re saluting their Beloved Leader as he sets out to conquer Earth. I look at their pasty, expressionless faces and their dark, empty eyes. Are these my people? Am I becoming one of them?

It seems easiest to give in.

Setrákus Ra is about to get us moving when a red light flashes on one of his video screens and a shrill buzzing sounds. The noise wakes me up a little. Some unlucky underling is trying to call Setrákus Ra right in the middle of his big day. Setrákus Ra’s jaw sets in annoyance at the incoming message and, for a moment, I think he might ignore it. Finally, he jabs a button and a frazzled Mogadorian communications officer appears on-screen.

“What is it?” snarls Setrákus Ra.

“Deepest apologies for the interruption, Beloved Leader,” the officer says, keeping his eyes downcast. “You have an urgent message from Phiri Dun-Ra.”

“It had better be,” Setrákus Ra grumbles. He waves a hand impatiently at the screen. “Very well. Put her through.”

The screen flashes, crackles, and then a Mogadorian woman appears. She has two long braids pinned up around her bald head and a sizable cut above her eyebrow. She’s surrounded on all sides by jungle. Apparently, a message from this trueborn is important enough to delay our flight down to New York. I try to sit up a little bit in my seat, fighting through the fog to pay attention.

“What is it, Phiri?” Setrákus Ra says, coldly. “Why have you contacted me directly?”

The Mog woman, Phiri, hesitates before she speaks. Maybe she’s taken aback by the human face addressing her with such authority. Or maybe she’s just scared of her Beloved Leader.