“How much farther?” I ask Dale.

He shrugs. He’s gotten a lot more comfortable around us since Marina half-froze his face last night. Probably on account of whatever’s in that flask.

“’Bout an hour,” he says.

“You better not be screwing with us,” I tell him. “If this is bullshit, we’ll leave you out here.”

That makes him sit up a little straighter. “I swear it’s true, ma’am. I saw some weird-ass aliens out here. You bet.”

I glare at him. Nine, finished dumping water over the side of the boat, snatches the flask from Dale’s hand.

“What’ve you got in here, anyway?” Nine asks, sniffing at the flask. “Smells like paint thinner.”

“I mean, it ain’t all paint thinner,” Dale counters. “Try some.”

Nine rolls his eyes and hands him back the flask, then turns to me.

“Seriously?” he asks, lowering his voice, more concerned that Marina will overhear than Dale, who’s sitting right next to us. “We’re relying on this guy?”

“Not just him,” I reply, shooting a look at Marina. “She senses something.”

“Since when does she . . . ?” Nine trails off, for once taking a moment to consider his words. “It still seems a little nuts to me, Six. That’s all.”

Before I can respond, Marina waves her hand at us, getting our attention.

“Cut the engine!” she hisses.

Dales snaps to and turns off the engine, still not wanting to piss off Marina. Our boat drifts forward silently.

“What is it?” I ask.

“There’s someone up ahead.”

I hear it then, too. A motor—one that does a lot less hiccupping than Dale’s—getting louder as it moves increasingly closer. With the zigzag pattern this tributary takes through the trees, we can’t yet see this other boat.

“Are there other dirtbag swamp people out this far?” Nine asks, eyeballing Dale.

“Sometimes,” Dale replies. He looks around at us, as if something has just occurred to him. “Now, hold on. Are we in danger? Because I didn’t sign up for that.”

“You didn’t sign up for anything,” Nine reminds him.

“Hush,” Marina snaps. “Here they come.”

I could turn us invisible. It occurs to me to grab hold of Marina and Nine, use my Legacy and make it look like Dale’s alone out here. But I don’t. Marina and Nine don’t look like they’re in any mood to hold hands either.

If there are Mogadorians out there, we want this fight.

I watch a dark outline pass through the clutter of trees and glide into the water in front of us. It’s a pontoon boat just like ours except much sleeker and probably with a few dozen less leaks. As soon as we come into view, the second boat also cuts its engine. It drifts about thirty yards in front of us, its wake causing us to bob on a gentle wave.

The boat is manned by three Mogadorians. Because of the heat, they’ve removed their stupid black leather trench coats and stripped down to tank tops, their arms shining pasty white, their blasters and daggers clearly visible along their belts. I wonder what they’re doing out here, brazenly out in the open, and then realize that they’re probably looking for us. After all, the swamps are our last known location. These unlucky Mog scouts must’ve drawn swamp duty.