The Chimærae respond with enthusiastic cawing and a fluttering of wings.

I nod to Sam and he throws open the van’s side door. What follows is a wild flurry of activity, our half dozen shape-shifting spy birds taking off all at once, a funnel of squawking and flapping wings as they fly out of the van. As serious as our situation is, there’s something awesome about the sight; Sam is grinning and even Adam allows himself a small smile.

“This is going to work,” Malcolm says, patting Sam on the back. Sam’s smile increases just a little bit more.

The view on the laptop screen is disorienting, the Chimærae all swooping and gliding in different directions. The first to settle into some trees position themselves right above the wrought-iron gates of Ashwood Estates. A gate is built into a brick wall there; the wall stretches for a few yards and then, presumably once it’s no longer visible from the road, turns into a more sinister-looking barbed-wire fence.

“Guards,” I say, pointing out the trio of Mogadorians, two of them sitting in the gatehouse, one of them pacing in front of the gate itself.

“That’s it?” Sam asks. “Only three of them? That’s nothing.”

“They do not expect a frontal attack. Or any attack, really,” Adam explains. “Their purpose is mainly to scare off any drivers who might make a wrong turn.”

As the remaining Chimærae settle onto rooftops and tree branches, the video feeds snapping into focus, I start to get a clearer idea of Ashwood Estates’ layout. Beyond the front gate is a short but winding entrance road with very little cover. That road leads to what is essentially a very large cul-de-sac, about twenty well-appointed houses arranged around a central recreation area. Apparently, the Mogadorians have picnic tables, basketball hoops and a pool. All in all, it’s an idyllic swath of suburbia, except there’s no one around.

“Seems quiet,” I say, scanning the feeds. “Is it always like this?”

“No,” Adam admits. “Something isn’t right.”

One of the Chimærae takes flight and repositions itself, getting an angle on one of the houses that we couldn’t see before. A trash truck is parked at the curb, its engine off.

“There’s someone,” Sam says, enlarging the feed.

A solitary Mogadorian holding a tablet computer stands next to the truck. He looks bored as he thumbs something into the tablet.

Adam squints at the tattoos on the Mogadorian’s scalp. “An engineer,” he says.

“You can tell that?” I ask.

“It’s in the tattoos. For trueborn, those are symbols of honor and what they’ve accomplished. The vatborn get job titles,” Adam explains. “Makes it easy to order them around.”

“There’s more,” Sam points out.

We watch as four Mogadorian warriors carry a refrigerator-sized piece of computer equipment out of the house. They take it towards the curb and set it down in front of the engineer, then wait around while he circles the machine and inspects it.

“Looks like a server,” Malcolm observes. He turns to Adam. “Could they be replacing the equipment you destroyed?”