With that, we start slowly forward. I’m not too worried about the noise our footfalls make on the uneven pavement; the Mogadorians are busy loading heavy gear from the greenhouse to the warship, the wheels on their dollies squeaking and grinding. I’m used to moving around while invisible, trusting my instincts, but I know that it can be hard for the others. We approach slowly, grasping on to each other, keeping as quiet as possible.

Marina takes us towards the greenhouse first. The Mogs are concentrated around that area, wheeling out carts loaded up with bizarre, mad scientist–looking devices. I watch as one Mog pushes a wheeled shelving unit cluttered with potted plants—flowers, patches of grass, saplings—all of them things found on Earth, and yet all of them veined with a strange gray fluid. They look droopy, on the verge of dying, and I wonder what kind of experiments the Mogs were running on them.

There’s a tall Mogadorian at the base of the ramp leading to the warship. His uniform is different from the usual warrior garb—those Mogs are at least sort of trying to fit in on Earth, even if they’re dressed like gothic weirdos. This guy is definitely some kind of military officer, his attire formal and severe, all black, covered in shining medals and studded epaulets. The tattoos across his scalp are much more elaborate than any I’ve seen. He holds a computer tablet in his hands, checking items off with a swipe of his finger as the Mogs load them onto the ship. He barks the occasional order at the others in harsh Mogadorian.

Marina tries to move us closer to the greenhouse, but I tighten my grip and plant my feet. Nine bumps into my back, letting out an annoyed grunt that we’re stopped. The path in front of us is like a Mogadorian obstacle course—they’re everywhere. Any closer and we run the risk of a stray Mog walking right into us. If Eight is in that greenhouse with their experiments and cargo, our only chance to get him would be a full-on assault. I’m not ready to go down that road yet. Sensing my reluctance, Marina’s hand grows a little colder in mine.

“Not yet,” I hiss at her, my words barely louder than a soft breath. “We check the hangar first.”

We make it about ten more steps before an animal groan stops us in our tracks. From the greenhouse, a team of Mogs wheel out a large cage. Inside is a creature that might have been a cow at one point but has since been transformed into something seriously nasty. The animal’s eyes are wet and jaundiced, painful-looking horns jut out of its skull, and its udder is immensely swollen and covered in the same grayish veins I noticed on the plants. The creature looks lethargic and depressed, barely alive. Whatever experiments the Mogs were running down here are truly disgusting and, like Nine, I’m starting to reconsider Marina’s idea of just wiping out all these bastards, massive warship or no massive warship.