“You’re crazy,” I say. “And you’re a liar.”

“I am neither of those things,” he replies, patiently. “I am a realist. A futurist. I altered my genetics to become more like them, so they would accept me. In return for their fealty, I helped their population grow. I brought them back from the brink of extinction. Joining the Mogadorians gave me a chance to continue the experiments that so frightened the Loric. Now, my work is almost finished. Soon, all life in the universe—Mogadorian, human, even what’s left of the Loric—will be improved under my gently guiding hand.”

“You didn’t improve life on Lorien,” I snap back. “You killed them all.”

“They opposed progress,” Setrákus Ra states, like the death of a whole planet is nothing.

“You’re sick.”

I’m not afraid to talk back to him. I know that he won’t hurt me—not yet, at least. He’s too vain for that, wants too badly to convert another Loric to the cause. He wants things to be just like in my nightmare. Since I woke up here, he’s had a team of female Mogadorians attending to me. They dressed me in this long, black formal gown, very similar to the one I was wearing in my vision. It itches like crazy, and I have to keep tugging at the neckline.

I stare openly at his hideous face, hating myself for trying to find some resemblance. His head is bulbous and pale, covered in intricate Mogadorian tattoos; his eyes are empty and black, just like the Mogs; his teeth are filed down and sharp. If I look hard enough, I can almost see the Loric cast to his features, like crumbling architecture buried beneath the paleness and gross Mog artwork.

Setrákus Ra looks up from his food, meeting my gaze. Facing him head-on still gives me a chill and I have to force myself not to turn away.

“Eat,” he says again. “You need your strength.”

I hesitate for a moment, not sure how far I should push my insubordination, but also really not wanting to sample the Mog version of sushi. I make a point of dropping my fork so that it clatters loudly against the side of my plate. It echoes in the high-ceilinged room—Setrákus Ra’s private dining area—which is only slightly more furnished than the other cold rooms aboard the Anubis. The walls are covered in paintings of Mogadorians bravely charging into combat. The ceiling is open, providing a breathtaking view of Earth, the planet imperceptibly rotating below us.

“Do not push me, girl,” Setrákus Ra growls. “Do as you’re told.”

I push my plate away from me. “I’m not hungry.”

He studies me, a condescending look in his eyes, like a parent trying to show a bratty child how patient they can be.

“I can put you back to sleep and feed you through a tube, if you’d prefer. Perhaps you’d be better mannered when I next woke you, once the war was won,” he says. “But then we wouldn’t be able to talk. You wouldn’t be able to enjoy your grandfather’s victory firsthand. And you wouldn’t be able to entertain your futile notions of escape.”